


We the Dreamers

by TheGoliathBeetle



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, M/M, New York City, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:57:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3492650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoliathBeetle/pseuds/TheGoliathBeetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York City, 1940: Antonio is a recently arrived refugee from Spain, a scarred soldier with firm political convictions. For Lovino, everything is pointless and nothing ever lasts. The two of them live, love and dream desperately, as World War Two threatens to take it all away. -Spamano, three-shot-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Ship Called Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually supposed to be a one-shot with an epilogue, but it was too ridiculously long, so I've had to break it up. This fic will therefore have three chapters of varying lengths.
> 
> This is not technically Historical Hetalia, but it takes place in a historical setting. I'm giving you a bit of a background, just in case you're not aware of certain details :)
> 
> Time period: March 1940 onward
> 
> Political scenario:
> 
> a) World War II officially has begun in September 1939, after Hitler invades Poland. Britain and France have declared war on Germany, but America has still not entered the war.
> 
> b) The Fascist dictator Francisco Franco is in power in Spain, after a Nationalist victory in the Spanish Civil War (1936-39). He is actively punishing Republican soldiers and sympathisers, prompting thousands of people to escape to France.
> 
> c) In June 1940 (three months after this story begins), France will fall to the German offensive, in an event with the unfortunate title The Fall of France. A very popular event during this period was the evacuation at Dunkirk. In a nutshell, the Prime Minister of Britain, Winston Churchill, managed to evacuate around 330,000 Allied troops from Dunkirk in France, and bring them back to Britain. The evacuation was conducted through a flotilla which consisted of ships and boats, both military and otherwise (even fishing vessels were used).
> 
> d) America is only just starting to recover from the Great Depression.
> 
> e) Kristallnacht or The Night of Broken Glass was a pogrom (a series of deadly attacks) that took place on 9-10th November 1938 in Nazi Germany and Austria. This essentially marked Germany's decent into Antisemitism. Quite obviously, it sparked enormous international outrage.  
> ...
> 
> Henrique Carriedo (Antonio's older brother) – Portugal
> 
> Madeline and Amelia Williams – Fem!Canada and Fem!America
> 
> Monika – Fem!Germany
> 
> This fic contains some genderbends along with their male versions. For example, it mentions Fem!America but it also has Male!America as two completely separate characters. The same goes for Ludwig and Monika. In this fic, they are different people.
> 
> I would further like to add that I am NOT an expert in history. I have just done a lot of research. IF you find any historical inaccuracies, I am extremely sorry. I would also like to say that I have never been to New York. All details in this story about the city and the events that take place on the global political scenario have all been understood using GOOGLE. I am just a student, and not even a citizen of USA. My understanding/descriptions may not be entirely accurate. But I have tried my hardest.
> 
> You may find politically incorrect comments in this fic. I'm trying to keep with the time period. Nevertheless, it won't be cruel or judgemental or anything, just slightly crass.
> 
> Thank you.

_"_ _You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us. And the world will live as one." – John Lennon_

* * *

March 1940

* * *

The man arrived in the early hours of a Sunday, on a small ship with the ambitious name  _S. S Hope_. By some miracle, he had all of his original documents. He was legal. And alive. And in America. And those three things were all he needed, for now. Along with a little bit of  _S. S Hope_ 's optimism, he would be fine.

The ship was quiet. Only some of the other passengers—dressed in rags, with dirty faces and emaciated bodies—were awake. They sat quietly on the floor and watched the sun hit the Statue of Liberty in a way that made her face glow.

The man with the hefty name rubbed the last of the tears from his eyes. There would be no crying now. He was alive, legal and in America. He was on a ship named hope. The Statue of Liberty was golden. New York looked like a modern El Dorado. There was no need to cry.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo stepped off the ship and onto the port. He pulled up the collar of his coat and rubbed his gloveless palms. There was a thin film of sleet underfoot, but not really that much snow.

Francis had told him who to look out for. The man with the glasses and the sunshine hair, perhaps waving energetically or calling his name. After he got his documents examined again, Antonio stepped out into the crisp air, eyes watchful. And there he was, Alfred Jones.

Alfred waved when he spotted Antonio, bounding up to him and pulling him into a hug. It was a surprise for Antonio. He'd never met Alfred before. "You're Toni, right?" Alfred said into his ear, still not letting go.

"Antonio, yes."

Alfred finally let him go, but still placed his hands on the man's shoulders. "Yeah, Francis remembers you kindly. You've been through some tough times, huh?"

Antonio just shrugged. "I take it as it comes."

He was surprised again at Alfred's chuckle. "That's the way." A brotherly pat between the shoulder blades. "Come on, you must be starving. And cold. Come to my place, I've made breakfast for you."

"That's too sweet!"

"No," Alfred said seriously, blue eyes devoid of humour. "The  _pancakes I made_ are probably too sweet."

Antonio found himself smiling. "I like sweet things."

"Excellent. Same here."

As Alfred took him by the elbow and dragged him off, Antonio heard him happily say, "The bad times are over, Toni! You're in the city of dreams."

* * *

December 1940

Part One: An Introduction to Silence

* * *

The thing with nightmares was that beyond a point, they became passé. Same old rubbish. Lovino had stopped waking up in cold sweat years ago. These were more the shadows of those bad dreams. They were what remained after the pain had lost its bite, or perhaps had seeped so deep into the mind that it didn't really make a difference to anything anymore.

As a general observation, Lovino could never remember his dreams. He wasn't even sure he had them. Just sometimes, he'd wake up with the strange feeling of having played hopscotch the wasteland that had once been a farm, or perhaps having heard the odd sentence in his grandfather's coarse Italian voice. Sometimes, Feli would be in those dreams too.

But as a rule, Lovino never let himself dwell on Feliciano too much. There was no point in dreaming about those who died young. They hadn't lived long enough to matter. That was what Lovino told himself, that was how he got through his day.

Lovino's apartment was fairly plain, a little hole in a little building in Little Italy. He never paid much attention to it. But there was a time those walls had been white and not grey, there was a time the door didn't creak as it opened and the floorboards didn't groan. Lovino didn't pay much attention to it at all. There was no point. If something broke, he fixed it. If he didn't know how, he asked his landlord to fix it. If the landlord didn't know either, Lovino would find a way to do without it.

He lived alone.

Nobody was surprised.

Least of all Lovino.

His thin coat and fraying gloves did little to protect him from the snow. Christmas decorations were everywhere. He never knew what do to with Christmas, either. It was just sort of…there, like graffiti on the walls. As good Catholic, Lovino went to midnight mass. He wished the neighbours happy holidays. He nodded when people smiled at him and tipped his hat at the women. Lovino didn't have to worry about buying or receiving presents. He didn't even have to worry about  _them._

He purposefully didn't look at the broken windows and bashed-in door of the barber's store. If people failed to repay Donatello, they had it coming. But that had been a while ago. The barber never came back to fix his shop. Rumours say he quietly left the area. Even Donatello didn't ruin Christmas. He was a good Catholic, that way. A good Catholic. At least to those in Little Italy.

Lovino owned  _Vargas Tailor_ , a small establishment between the mechanic's store and the grocery. There, he made suits for men, dresses for women and hats for the both of them. Donatello's boys got their clothes from here. As far as possible, he made an honest living. Only and only when Donatello's boys made him threaten people for money did he do it. After all, it was either them or himself, and Lovino had worked hard for  _Vargas Tailor_. He'd made it a reality using entirely legal money.

Lovino was a simple man, a good man, and that was all anyone could ask from a person. Anything more was too much, and anything less was pointless.

* * *

Antonio liked to divide his life into two time periods: before and after.

Specifically, Before the War and After the War.

Before the  _Guerra_   _Civil_ , he worked as a farmhand. He liked talking to the cows. They had big brown eyes that seemed to listen to him without judgement. So Antonio could talk and talk and talk, and all he'd get in response is a large pile of dung and a snort or two, which was fine. They were, after all, cows.

Then came the war, and that changed everything. He'd been so scared after Henrique went out to fight and never came back. He had to protect his Mama, so he picked up a rifle—there always seemed to be plenty of those around, like rotten tomatoes falling off the plant—and fought.

Today, Antonio was proud to say he'd been a Republican solider. He was proud to say he had tried his hardest to ensure Francisco Franco never came to power. He learnt these grand ideas of Fascism and Communism and Democracy, and liked only one of them. So he was happy in America where there were elections and freedom of speech. And if he had to escape his home country for his beliefs, well, that was just a shame.

Antonio was proud of his past, and there was no reason not to be. He was a soldier, and soldiers always fought. And there were many kinds of battles in ones lifetimes. The literal ones and the spiritual ones. These days, Antonio found himself fighting the second kind.

The English words were so difficult to read. He sat behind the counter at the dingy bakery he worked at, squinting at the undecipherable language. When he was younger, he'd been first in his class at reading. Now he felt like a child again. A stupid child. Because the more he pored over the words, the less sense they made. And he had to know the news. He had to know what was happening in Europe.

Alfred had let him stay with him for a couple of weeks. He'd found Antonio a job in an okay neighbourhood and an apartment only five minutes away on foot. The economy was only just picking up, and jobs were being snatched away like candy.

His boss was a portly old man with a square-shaped face. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a toothbrush moustache. He stepped out of the kitchens and smiled at Antonio. Antonio looked up, very close to expressing his despair out loud. He folded the paper, rolled it up and waved it in the air. "Does it say anything about the war? Does it?"

"Antonio, come on, it's Christmas."

"No, Christmas isn't for another three days! I  _must_ know about the war!"

His boss sighed loudly before walking up to Antonio and taking the paper from him. He unrolled the rag, glanced quickly at the front page, and said, "Nothing since the strike on Mannheim by those RAF bombers."

Antonio blinked. "But that was—" he counted off his fingers. "But that was  _seven days_ ago!"

"How much more bombing do you want in seven days?" his boss asked, giving Antonio an exasperated shake of the head.

"Do you think they'll stop the warfare for Christmas?"

"If we're lucky." His boss shrugged. "I fought in the First Great War, you know?"

Antonio just stared. "What was it like?"

"I was in the trenches," his boss went on, making a face. "It was pretty icky."

"Icky?"

"You know," his boss made all sorts of vague hand gestures, "Wet, sticky, grubby, dirty. Lots of rats. Lots of gunfire. All of that. You ever heard of the Christmas Truce?"

Antonio had, albeit vaguely. One of the British commanders of the International Brigades in the  _Guerra Civil_  had spoken about it. "Is that where the Germans and the English people played football on the battlefield?"

"Yes, yes, that's the one." His boss sighed. "I don't think something like that is going to happen this time."

" _Si,_ I guess not. There are big tanks." Antonio paused, frowning. Sometimes this language made him stumble. "And big planes," he finally added. "Bigger than in the last  _g_ _uerra_." He liked to swap English for Spanish sometimes. It made him feel a little less homesick, at least for that split second.

"Big tanks, big planes, big submarines, and big Nazis." His boss shook his head in apparent disbelief. "I'll get started on making the plum cakes."

* * *

Alonso was the weedy, thin, sickly one with the leering smirk. He entered  _Vargas Tailor_ around lunchtime. Lovino had been helping someone pick out suit material when Alonso arrived. The three men in the shop had looked at each other. Then the customer smiled faintly at Alonso, tipped his hat in politeness and perhaps fear before wordlessly walked out.

Lovino sighed softly. "You're scaring away my customers again."

"They're showing their respect, boy." Alonso dipped a hand into the pocket of his coat. Lovino knew from experience that he wasn't pulling out a gun but a notepad. Alonso tore out a page and handed it to Lovino. "This one's a week past the due date. Go there and remind him that Padrone Donatello is getting impatient."

Lovino took the paper with a hastily scribbled down address. He hated doing these jobs. Some poor fellow named Barney was going to get shot in the leg if he didn't pay, and Lovino was supposed to remind him of that. "Barney the baker. Has a nice ring to it," he muttered, just to make conversation.

Alonso blinked. "Just go."

It was a cold snowy day three afternoons before Christmas, and Lovino the Good Catholic and Lovino the Simple Man did not want to ruin the holidays for Barney the Baker, and yet, it was either Barney's skin or his own. Lovino was the mafia's complicated little marionette. That had been the case right from the beginning.

They were kind enough to him. Padrone Donatello never made him bully the people in his own neighbourhood. They only gave him jobs outside Little Italy. That way, Lovino could continue to be the upstanding man he pretended he was.

It was called  _The New Little Bakery_ , but it looked about a hundred years old. Ill-lit, derelict, dingy. Lovino could see termite marks in the wood. The glass case with the goods was greasy and stained with fingerprint marks. There was a backdoor that could have been anything from a kitchen to the entrance to a tomb.

The man at the counter was attractive. That was the first thing Lovino noticed, and then he mentally kicked himself. Because he was a good Catholic, a simple man, an upstanding, honourable fellow, and he hated that he often got these… _homosexual_ tendencies. He'd always had them. It made things difficult to explain. Why was he thirty-one years old and unmarried? He couldn't just tell the truth, could he? The neighbours would talk.

The man with the green eyes smiled at him, and opened his mouth to speak in an accent that was decidedly not American. "Hola! Good day! Merry Christmas!"

Lovino stared at him with a looming, dangerous silence. Most people understood this silence. Most people ran from it. But not this one. He seemed completely foreign to the concept.

"You look like you're having a bad day," the man said after a prolonged moment of quiet. He wasn't smiling anymore. His face had fallen in a look of mild concern. "Oh, I know," he went on, and the smile was back. He bent down, opened the glass case and took out what looked like some sort of cream pastry, put it on a paper plate and placed it on the counter. "This should make you feel better. It's free! Because nobody should look that sad three days before Christmas, no?"

Lovino looked from the cake to the man, not saying a word. Finally, his eyes flickered towards the backdoor, before they came back to the overly cheerful fellow. "You're Barney?"

"Uh, no. My boss is Barney. Want me to get him?"

"Yes. Now."

The man took a step back, took a deep breath and then without warning, shouted, "Mr. Barney! Mr. Barney, someone's here to see you!"

"What?" there was a muffled thud and the sounds of footsteps shuffling. Then the backdoor opened and a head peeked out from behind it. "What was that, Antonio?"

"I said there's somebody here to see you." And the one called Antonio gestured to Lovino.

Lovino and Barney locked eyes for a moment, and the Italian watched the other man's pale skin turn even paler. "You know why I'm here," Lovino said quietly, making sure his words were dripping with menace he did not feel. He took a threatening step towards Barney. "You owe the Padrone a shit ton of money, Barney."

"Yes, I know, I know." Barney swallowed, and Lovino caught him giving furtive looks to Antonio. For his part, Antonio's body had gone taut in what looked like an animalistic urge to react.

"I'm not going to hurt you today, Barney," Lovino went on, voice like ice. "It's Christmas. You've got the family to worry about. Don't want daddy to have a broken leg on Christmas, now do we?"

"I'll get the money, I just need a few more wee—"

"If you don't have the money by New Year's Eve, you'll be  _crawling_ to Church. Get me?"

Before stalking off, Lovino plucked the cream pastry from the counter. "Thanks for this," he said without looking as he stepped out into the snow.

He kept up his menacing prowl until he reached the end of the street. Lovino stood under an awning as he finished the last of the cake. He crushed the paper plate and threw it on the footpath. The pastry had probably been the best part of his day so far. Dipping his hand under his shirt, he pulled out the Cross pendant.

He lowered his head and refused to cry. "I'm so sorry, Father."

It was starting to snow.

* * *

If silence was a place then it was here, at three in the morning with a bottle of cheap wine, a red brick building with no curtains on the windows, a lonely apartment and the city covered in white.

If silence was a place then it was here, with Christmas lights and neon signs, to celebrate a familiar day in a strange place where one Sunday morning a ship called  _S.S Hope_  came to deliver a cargo full of the ones that needed it most.

If silence was a place then it was here, caught between the dream and the reality, like two pairs of legs tangled in the sheets.

And if silence were a person, then it was him.

Antonio never slept much. If New York was the city of dreams, then why did he have so many nightmares?

Nightmares with screaming children and gunfire and collapsed buildings and a country that was tearing itself down where brothers bled out on the pavements and there had to be some purpose to the fires of Madrid and Barcelona and Guernica there had to be had to be hadtobehadtobe because if there wasn't then what was Antonio doing here in another planet in another universe with homesickness for a place that no longer existed

where there were farms and grass and laughter and the sort of warmth that came not from the summer sun but from inside somewhere although now that warmth was replaced with inferno and hate

and all antonio wanted to do was go home go home go home

It was quiet tonight.

It was always quiet.

* * *

Lovino spent all night at church.

It kept him from crying.

And remembering.

* * *

Part Two: The Insistent Americans

* * *

 _March 22_ _nd_ _1940_

_Dear Francis,_

_I hope you (or someone around you) can read Spanish, because I can't write in English and I certainly can't write in French. But I just wanted to let you know that I've reached New York safely, have spoken with Alfred and have acquired a small but acceptable job._

_I can't thank you enough. I really can't. There are so many out there who are more deserving of this second chance than I am. It's a pity the French government did so little for the refugees, but you, my friend. You are an extraordinary human being. I don't know what contacts you had, I don't know what strings you had to pull, but to get me to America with all my documents intact in this tumultuous political climate? How did you even manage that? I think the question will always mystify me._

_I have a small but pleasant little room in a building with a new structure but an old atmosphere. There is one bathroom at the end of each corridor, for all the inhabitants to share. But that's all right. I've had worse. WE'VE had worse, no? I have nothing by way of radio or telephone, but the landlord lets me make the occasional phone call through his, and even takes messages for me (not that I receive too many!) Isn't that wonderful? He's a good man. A bit grouchy, I suppose, but a good man._

_The city is marvellous. I am constantly amazed at the number of tall buildings and the newness of it all! I get the feeling that European cities have quite the old-world air, but New York is fresh and undamaged. And goodness, what a lot of mass production there is here! I know that Europe also mass produces (some things), and I also know that Spain was never really that much of a producer, so it's unfair to make a comparison, but goodness gracious!_

_I had my first sip of Coke yesterday. The drink, not the drug. Coca-Cola. Alfred introduced me to it. I don't remember if I ever saw this in Spain. Maybe France has them? I'm not sure, although it's not like I saw much of France during my 'sojourn' there. Maybe they do sell this in Paris. I don't think you'd like it, though. It's sort of fizzy and quite sweet and tends to almost scald the mouth as it goes down. But that's just the gas. This is a strange drink in a very strange country._

_They speak a different kind of English, too. You know how the commander (what was his name?) from one of the British troops in the International Brigade would ask for a rubber when he meant eraser? Apparently, over here, a rubber is…a contraceptive device. I asked Alfred for a 'rubber' (I wanted an eraser) yesterday and he gave me a strange look and a lascivious smirk. You would have had a good laugh._

_This city is not much like Paris, but I think you would enjoy yourself here. The Statue of Liberty is really quite grand. You should come to visit sometime. I'd love to show you around (once I learn to get around myself, of course!)_

_I want to thank you once again. I am safe and warm and well because of your hard work and concern. You will always have my deepest loyalty and gratitude._

_Your friend,_

_Antonio._

* * *

_May 17_ _th_ _1940_

_Dear Francis,_

_My boss, Barney, reads out the English newspapers to me when I ask him to (which is fairly often, I admit. I still haven't grasped reading or writing in this language. I doubt I ever will.) And I learnt that the Netherlands surrendered to Hitler only two days ago. I don't know if France is under attack or not. I wish I could ask Barney to read out the whole paper for me, but he only obliges the headlines and a paragraph or two on the first few pages._

_Francis, your silence worries me. Are you perhaps fighting in this war too? Please, please, please be careful. You survived the Spanish Civil War but don't test your luck. What do the French say? "Sil vous plait" or something like that, no? (Pardon me if I haven't written the accents or have misspelled something.)_

_I hope that your lack of response is because you cannot read Spanish and have not found someone who will translate for you. I worry for your safety. Please write to me at the earliest._

_Your friend,_

_Antonio._

* * *

_June 7_ _th_ _1940_

_Dear Francis,_

_Oh my god._

_I'm sorry, that is a terrible way to begin a letter, but now when I sit down to write it, those are the only words that play in my head, again and again. Oh. My. God. Dunkirk. Dunkirk. Dunkirk._

_Francis please tell me you are all right. I haven't heard from you in months, and I don't know if that's because my letters are getting blocked my some sort of censor (?) But I absolutely MUST know. Were you at Dunkirk when the Germans attacked? Were you one of those people who escaped through the flotilla?_

_RESPOND. NOW. PLEASE. I can't bear to lose another friend to the wrath of war. I've lost so many already. And the German offensive is…in a word, brutal. I never imagined there could be anything like it. Did Mr. Churchill not once say that "The English go to the country on weekends and Hitler takes countries over the weekend"? Something similar, anyway. I don't recall exactly. But it's terrifying. And I'm not even in Europe right now. I can't imagine the state of fear there must be over there._

_Please be careful and respond at once._

_Your friend,_

_Antonio._

* * *

_June 30_ _th_ _1940_

_Dear Francis,_

_I waited. I heard the news of France's defeat and I waited. Hoped. Hoped that you would reply and tell me you were alive. Perhaps a little bit banged-up (that would be expected), but on the whole, alive and well._

_And yet, you remain silent._

_It feels like I'm writing this out into a void, shouting for you in the darkness, hoping, praying that you will reply. And you never do._

_I went to church yesterday. I went to church despite my atheism—or perhaps disenchantment is the right word—with God. And I asked Him to prove Himself to me. After all this pain and destruction, after all that He has broken, I asked Him to prove himself. I asked Him to keep you alive._

_And I will reserve my judgement for His miracles until I receive a letter from you, my dear friend. If God exists in these Godless times, He will, I'm sure, prove that He is not just a fairytale we tell ourselves to sleep through the bombings and the bloodshed._

_The Germans, the Italians, the Nationalists, God – SOMEONE has to answer for Guernica. SOMEONE has to answer for Spain. SOMEONE has to answer for Poland and the Low Countries and France and every single place that humanity has ravaged over and over._

_I doubt I will ever see beauty in a place again. The most powerful cities are built on the bones of its slaves. The happiest of civilisations smile over the misery of their colonies._

_God has to prove He is still there for us. And you, Francis, you have to write me a letter._

_Your friend,_

_Antonio._

* * *

_December 24_ _th_ _1940_

_Dear Francis,_

_There are, I'm sure, better ways to spend Christmas Eve in a city as wondrous as New York. But I can't stop crying. The ink on the page blurs as my tears stain it. How can someone be so safe and blessed, and yet be so unhappy?_

_It is not, I promise, ungratefulness or want of more. It is grief. I guess you can say I'm grieving. I never did cry for the loss of my innocence, so I suppose this has been a long time coming._

_Everything was so different. My childhood had only consisted of fields and cows and dogs and playing football barefoot with the children in the village. And then we all grew up and did the same work our parents had done. My friends got married and started families. Papa's poor heart gave out. And a year later, there came war._

_My brother, Henrique, went first. Slowly, the children in the village became defenders of the village and food became dearer than bullets. I had grown up to be a man with the constant smile and the simple philosophies, who never cared for the grander schools of thought, never considered politics and war and loyalties, never saw beyond the immediate moment. How did that man become the person I am today?_

_I know USA will enter the war. That is certain. It's just a question of when. I know that there is no hope to try deposing Franco, although I have briefly met veterans from the International Brigade around here who think otherwise. I know that we haven't seen the worst of Hitler's atrocities. I know that at the moment, the Allies have a very slim chance of actually winning. And I know that the fate of civilised society hangs in the balance._

_The problem, Francis, is that I don't WANT to know these things. I want my life to be as it was in Spain, in my little village, playing football with the boys and talking to the cows and helping Papa and Henrique in the fields, and kissing Mama on the forehead before going to sleep. That is all I want. I want the past, and I want the past to be the present and the future._

_But life tosses us about in strange ways, and eventually all of us lose our innocence. It's all a matter of how we cope with it. I think I'm doing rather well, despite everything. I live a meagre existence, but I've always lived that way. I'm more comfortable like this._

_We do have occasional problems. Just the other day, Barney was threatened by a man who I suspect was connected with the mafia. The mafia is in abundance here. I almost attacked him. I know how to attack someone and kill them. But he didn't hurt Barney, so it's only fair that I didn't hurt him, no?_

_Criminals are all the same. I remember the ones back home, too. Nothing but bullies, oppressors of the weak. Like Franco and Hitler and Mussolini and the rest. Maybe the bullies lost their innocence in the cruellest way imaginable and never truly recovered from it. If that is true, then I hope to never attack someone and become a bully myself. For me, the world has lost its wonder, but not its value. There is still that. I want to preserve that. I never, ever, ever want to wake up one day to find that I hate—or desire—something so much that I will destroy it just to make an impact on it. The bullies are the real tragedies, not the victims. The bullies have fallen so far that they have no consideration for beauty or value. Isn't that so very sad?_

_I've finally stopped crying. The city looks beautiful from my window. Like a cake made of snow and sprinkled with light. This really is a magical time of the year. I still can't stop my homesickness, though. I want to go back to the Spain I remember. The Spain that was a country of its people, and not just some bully's personal backyard. Although I suppose democracy has always been a little on the rickety side in my nation, no?_

_But there is democracy here, and I treasure that. America is not home, but I hope that one day, it will be. I dream of walking down these streets and feeling like a citizen. And the only reason I can even conceive such a thought is because of your efforts in getting me here._

_I wish you could have seen New York, but your long silence tells me that you are probably in a place even better than this now. I guess I've come to terms with that. So I thank you once again, and bid you farewell._

_But I still want to post this letter. Maybe by shouting into the void, my voice might travel to Heaven. If there is one, that is. (But I am sure that wherever you go, Heaven follows.)_

_Merry Christmas._

_Your friend,_

_Antonio._

* * *

After Midnight Mass, Lovino found himself aimlessly wandering the streets, listening to Christmas parties through windows and closed doors. The cold bit into him but somehow didn't torture him like it used to. It was fine. He could deal with it.

The city looked beautiful tonight. It always did. What was it like in Italy right now? Last he'd heard, they'd joined this damn war. He didn't know how to feel about that. On one hand, Lovino was the tiniest bit proud of Italy being on the winning side, but then a despot like Mussolini being the leader of the country sort of dampened his spirits. Though underneath the mild interest in these affairs, Lovino didn't care. He'd cut ties with home so many years ago, that thinking about it gave him phantom pain. He hurt in parts of his heart that he was sure didn't exist anymore.

For him, Italy was silent and distant and far, far away. Italy was ripped out of him at Ellis Island and thrown into the ocean at the docks where he'd waited and waited and waited every night for ten years, craving anything but the tunnelling silence at the other end.

Grandpa and Feli never came. They'd promised they'd come and they never did.

Christmas was background noise. Graffiti on the walls.

He walked through the streets in a sort of daze, stumbling into a dingy bar at half past two in the morning because he couldn't feel his toes. Lovino couldn't figure out if it was quiet or not. There were people there, certainly. But all of them had a washed out, tired sort of look of a population that were as irrelevant to Christmas as Christmas was to them. Lovino was right at home here.

He went to the counter to order his usual beer, but then paused and asked for wine instead. At least he could pretend he was celebrating something, right? The barman looked inebriated himself, but managed to pour something purple and vaguely wine-like into a greasy beer mug. Lovino took it wordlessly.

"I hear they mix piss in it."

The voice was so slurred that Lovino barely caught it, but the man was sitting only two spaces away from Lovino himself, grinning at him with a kind of contented, drunk stupidity. He was, Lovino noticed, an actual albino. White hair, milk skin, red eyes, everything. Lovino had never seen someone as physically interesting as this man before. He stumbled over to where Lovino was and plonked down next to him, resting his chin in his palm as he placed Lovino under a long knowing smirk.

"What?" Lovino asked after a moment, realising he needed to respond.

"I hear they mix piss in it," the albino replied, absolutely calm, as though he was saying something perfectly normal. "Piss," he said again at Lovino's blank face, "In the wine."

The man's accent finally came through his slurred speech. Lovino felt his stomach drop.

"You're a German."

That elicited a response from the albino. "And a  _good man_. I live here and I pay my taxes and I hate Hitler. I am a  _good man_." His expression had become humourless and firm. "And you are an Italian, aren't you? So we're on the same side."

Lovino looked away. He was a good man too. He was. He threatened people occasionally, but he'd never, ever hurt them. "I'm a practicing Catholic," he stated firmly, without making eye-contact.

The albino laughed. "You know we're called  _Protestant_ because we  _protested_ against your shit, right?"

"Oh fuck off, you mad drunk." Lovino raised his glass to his lips.

"They mix piss in it," the albino insisted as Lovino drank.

"Then piss tastes delicious. Now shut up."

Instead of going away, the albino outstretched a hand to shake. "Never seen a man drink piss with that much confidence. I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt."

Lovino stared at the offered palm for a moment before slowly shaking it. "Lovino Vargas."

"I want a beer." So Gilbert signalled to the drunken barman for one. "So Lovino, what brings you here on Christmas Eve? No family?"

"None of your business."

"My family is in Germany," Gilbert replied a tad wistfully, eyes faraway. Although that could also have been the result of the drink. "I have a brother in the war. Wonder what he's up to."

"Nazi," Lovino muttered, looking away.

Gilbert narrowed his red eyes but said nothing for a very long moment. Finally, he muttered, "Luddy's not a Nazi. He has no choice. I'm actually glad he's in the war, because if he weren't, he'd probably be at home, persecuting Jews. You know how it was.  _Kristallnacht_. Luddy's a gentle boy. A child with a firm moral compass, you know?"

"Nazi," Lovino repeated with far less conviction.

"He's not," Gilbert insisted with a touch of irritation. "He used to have Jewish friends. They disappeared. And he had to keep a straight face. He's good at that. Keeping straight faces, I mean. It's either them, or him. You know?"

Lovino set his glass down on the counter. He  _did_ know that sentiment, actually. He knew it too fucking well. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Gilbert repeated. "I came here to study. Then Hitler showed up and made a mess of things. So I stayed here. He'd kill me for sure."

Lovino tiled his head towards Gilbert. The man's red eyes reflected the dim lights of the room.

"I'm the wrong colour," Gilbert went on. "Jews, homosexuals, gypsies, traitors, and all sorts of other miscellaneous life forms that the Fuhrer doesn't like. I come under the miscellaneous category."

"You're as white as it can get."

"There  _is_ such a thing as being  _too_  white, you know." Gilbert's eyes held a strange, sarcastic smile. "Can't be too white, can't be too black, can't be grey either—'cause if you're grey, means you're dead."

To his utter surprise (maybe it was the piss-wine?), Lovino laughed. "All you have to be is a heterosexual German man with blue eyes and yellow hair with bad taste in food and a stick up your ass."

"What's wrong with our food?" Gilbert asked, a tad threateningly.

"What's  _right_ with potatoes and barely-cooked meat?"

"Hey! It's cooked, okay? And for your information, potatoes are delicious."

"I think that's the problem with Germany," Lovino said suddenly. "They're off taking over other countries because of suppressed urges to eat good food. I mean, they're just mad with fate because all they ever grew up on were potatoes, so they're taking it out on the rest of Europe. No interesting flavours in their diet. I've eaten potatoes, okay? No matter  _what_ you cook them in, they  _always_ taste the same."

Gilbert rolled his eyes and finished his beer. "Let's take a walk."

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "You're going to beat me up because I insulted potatoes? How  _German_ of you."

"No," Gilbert laughed. "You're fun to talk to and this bar is shitty. Let's go somewhere else."

* * *

"I came here to study," Gilbert said again as they staggered (Gilbert more than Lovino) in the snow. "Good universities in Germany, but I still came here. The Great War, y'know? Fucked shit up back in old Europa. Especially for Germany. My mother used to take a  _wheelbarrow_  of banknotes to the market to buy one loaf of bread. You know why? The Mark depreciated. And depreciated. And depreciated." Gilbert paused, and somewhat sheepishly added, "I majored in Economics."

"No shit," Lovino muttered, tugging his coat closer to himself.

"I've not gone back to Germany in  _years_. The one time I considered it, that joyless bastard with a dogshit moustache came and made things worse. And I wasn't going to go back home only to get brainwashed into believing I was a genetic mistake! I'm snow white and ruby red,  _and fuck you_ ,  _Adolf_!" Gilbert suddenly stopped walking, staring at Lovino in wonder.

"What?" Lovino asked, staring right back.

And then Gilbert threw his head back, raised his arms to the sky, and shouted into the night, "FUCK YOU, ADOLF! FUCK YOU! YEAAH!"

"What the hell are you doing? Stop it!"

"FUCK YOU, ADOLF!" He looked at Lovino for only a moment. "Say it with me, Vargas! FUCK YOU, ADOLF!"

"But I have nothing against Hitler."

"That's bullshit."

Lovino sighed. And quietly, he said, "Fuck you, Adolf."

"That's the spirit! Louder!"

"Fuck you, Adolf!"

"FUCK YOU, ADOLF!"

"FUCK YOU, ADOLF!"

"TAKE YOUR DOGSHIT MOUSTACHE AND STUFF IT UP YOUR ASS!" Gilbert yelled.

"Maybe if we shout loud enough, he'll hear us?"

"HITLER!" Gilbert yelled, "DID YOU HEAR ME? I SAID,  _TAKE YOUR DOGSHIT MOUSTACHE AND STUFF IT UP YOUR ASS_!"

"THE WORD NAZI SOUNDS LIKE A SNEEZE!"

"YEAH! HEAR THAT? YOUR PARTY SOUNDS LIKE IT HAS THE FLU!"

"FUCK YOU!"

"FUCK YOU!"

Lovino hadn't had that much to drink, but he felt exceptionally intoxicated right now. And as Gilbert had enough shouting and staggered into the night, Lovino followed him. And they talked about the things only the inebriated could talk about.

* * *

"They say NYC is the city of dreams," Gilbert began grandly as they trudged through the snow, ignoring the biting cold. "But what they don't tell you is that it's the city of  _immediate_ dreams, not  _big_ dreams. It's for the people who don't get a safe place to sleep and have to fight for their food and are ripped apart by famine and war and all that shit. They come to New York hoping for a better tomorrow, but what they get is a better  _today_. Tomorrow entails they have a future. They don't. They have a present, and the present is filled with basic luxuries. Like soap."

"Hear, hear."

"New York will satisfy your  _immediate_ dream." He paused and glanced at Lovino. "You got an immediate dream, Vargas?"

Lovino didn't reply. He didn't have dreams. He wouldn't know what to do with them. Maybe what he wanted most was Feli and Grandpa to be alive. To be with him. "I want my family."

"Ah, that's a  _big_ dream," Gilbert corrected with a dark smirk. "You got any immediate needs you want satisfying? Some service that New York City can do you?"

Lovino kicked some snow underfoot and hugged himself tighter. In a small voice, he muttered, "It would be nice to be my own man."

Gilbert thumped him on the back so hard that Lovino almost fell over. "There, that's a good one. You want to hear my immediate dream?"

"Yeah, sure."

"So there's this girl."

_Of course._

"Her name's Madeline Williams." Gilbert's eyes drifted away again. "Lives in the building opposite mine. I see her sometimes, walking her fluffy white dog or going to work. She has a sister. Amelia Williams. The perky, fun one who harps on about women's rights and independence and freedom from social customs and all that. But nobody notices Madeline." His gaze softened. "But real beauty is what nobody notices. Real beauty flits in the spaces between the colours."

Lovino exhaled softly.

"I've spoken to her once or twice. But her father will never allow a marriage, so why bother wooing her?"

"Why's that?"

"I'm an albino," Gilbert replied, his voice sad and soft and demure. "It's shit to be shunned for what you can't control. That's all I'm saying."

"Tell me about it." Lovino paused, deliberated, and then quietly said, "What do you think about queers?"

Gilbert's pace slowed to a halt, and he turned slowly to look at Lovino. "You queer?"

"What if I was?"

Gilbert said nothing for a moment, regarding Lovino with studied blankness. And then he shrugged, turning his head to the road and continuing the walk. "Hey man, I don't give a shit. I've had my own experiences with your kind. You know,  _in the bedroom._ Yeah, once or twice. It was…different, I'll say that. But the world finds  _any reason_ to hate these days. Colour, race, religion, orientation, nationality, ideology, class,  _whatever_ , man. We're so entombed in our  _societies_ and  _communities._ Well, I want no part in it. None at all. We waste too much time hating each other, when it's simpler and much more enjoyable to have a beer with a stranger on Christmas Eve."

"Well, aren't you a regular philosopher."

Gilbert laughed. "And that's the beauty of New York, man. A German Protestant albino can have a drink with an Italian Catholic queer on Christmas night and we're somehow both American. We remain  _insistently_ American, I say."

"No, we're not American. We're immigrants."

"That's not what the white guys said when they landed up here on the Mayflower." Gilbert waggled his eyebrows in jest.

"I don't even know what to say to that," Lovino muttered, rubbing his hands close together. "Shit, can we get out of this cold?"

"My apartment's not too far away," Gilbert offered.

* * *

It was snowing at five in the morning and neither of them had slept. Lovino was panting slightly, and Gilbert was quiet. At least for the moment. Lovino stared into the darkness with slow disbelief combined with pleasant satiation. There were worse ways to spend Christmas Eve night.

"I'm surprised you agreed to this," Gilbert said quietly. "Didn't know you were that sloshed."

"I'm not drunk," Lovino replied simply. "I just figured it's my only chance to fuck a drunken German Protestant albino philosopher I just met on Christmas Eve night in New York City."

Gilbert's laugh was breathy. "I guess that's true."

"What about Madeline, though?"

"It doesn't matter. It's not like I'll ever get to marry her."

"You said this city fulfills your immediate dreams."

"Only if you fight for them, Lovino. Only if you fight for them."

* * *

Part Three: Ordinary Courage

* * *

They barged into  _Vargas Tailor_ just as he was opening shop on New Year's Day. Lovino couldn't even comprehend what was happening when he saw Salvatore and Cesare, both of them huge and humourless. Lovino raised his head and then an eyebrow as they stood between him and the door. "Come with us," Cesare said quietly.

Lovino stared. And then he felt himself go cold. "Whatever you think I've done, I'm innocent. I  _swear_."

Salvatore snorted, exchanging smirks with Cesare. "He thinks we're going to kill him. Ain't that cute?"

"You're going to help us. Donatello's very happy with your work so far. Consider this a treat."

 _What the fuck_ , Lovino thought. But he wasn't allowed to say anything before Cesare caught him by the shoulder and dragged him out, right in front of all the other establishments. Lovino only caught glimpses of his neighbours' terrified faces as he was thrown into the backseat of Salvatore's car, the door shutting loudly and ominously after him.

"What the hell is this?" Lovino cried as the car started to move. At his feet there were three baseball bats.  _God, no._ "What the hell is this?" he repeated softly, his voice trembling.

"You know that baker with the catchy name?" Salvatore replied.

"What was it? Boris, Barney?" Cesare added.

"Barney," said Salvatore as he took a hand off the steering wheel to light a cigarette. "Want one, Vargas?"

Lovino was going to vomit. He could feel his stomach spinning. His head felt faint, his body quivered. He was either going to throw up or faint. "No," he managed to croak. The thought of a cigarette right now was nauseating.

"Barney forgot to pay, so we're going to wish him Happy New Year," Cesare chuckled.

"Why do  _I_ have to be there for this?"

Neither of them answered for a moment, and then Salvatore said, "We felt like tagging you along."

"Yeah, Vargas. We like it when you cuss. It's hilarious. Say something. Cuss."

"Fuck you," Lovino said before he took a sharp intake of breath. No, no, no, what was he  _playing at_? They wouldn't think twice about shooting him in the head and tossing his body in the sea.

But Salvatore and Cesare just laughed. "A riot, this one," Salvatore commented mildly, a smile in his voice.

Lovino fell back against the car seat and wished he could just disappear. He could not beat someone with a baseball bat. He hated violence. Poor Barney was just doing whatever he could to make ends meet, and this was just… _Dio_ , so cruel. No. Lovino couldn't do this. He absolutely couldn't do this to an innocent man.

But the car pulled up alongside  _The New Little Bakery_ and Lovino was hauled out. Salvatore handed him one of the baseball bats. The street suddenly became empty. Shoppers and salesmen alike disappeared, hid in buildings, scurried down alleys.

Barney was polishing the greasy glass case and the attractive one, Antonio, was arranging breads.

Then, Barney froze. His eyes met Lovino's. Then he saw the baseball bats. That one moment lasted forever.

And then there was pandemonium. Barney ran into the shop, shouting, "ANTONIO, RUN!"

Salvatore and Cesare tore after him. Everything was happening all at once. There was screaming and the terrible sound of bones cracking and Lovino was frozen in shock as they hit Barney and Antonio and what was going on—Antonio staggered and slammed a crate into Cesare's head and Salvatore took out his gun and Lovino screamed, "NO!"

He didn't know how his legs were carrying him when he was so terrified but he launched forward with his baseball bat and pushed Salvatore out of the way. "Are you fucking insane? Donatello wouldn't want you to make such a goddamn gunfight out of this!" and in that, Antonio launched himself at a distracted Salvatore and twisted the gun out of his hand and there were shots fired into the ceiling as Antonio's knee connected with Salvatore's groin and then he saw Lovino and Lovino saw him and—

"Kill him!" Cesare groaned from the floor and Antonio looked at Lovino again and then at an unconscious Barney and went straight for him, trying to hoist him up and escape into the backdoor towards the kitchen and Cesare was saying, "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!" over and over again and Lovino never forgave himself for the moment when his fingers tightened around the baseball bat and he marched into the kitchen.

There was another backdoor there that opened into a dirty alley and Antonio was on his knees trying to lift Barney up again and Lovino noticed how there was a cut on his forehead and his shirt was stained with blood and Antonio looked up and Lovino looked back and they just stayed like that, with Lovino holding the bat above his head, all ready to strike and kill.

And then something shattered.

And Lovino lowered the weapon. "Go," he whispered urgently.

Antonio stared back in shock and disbelief.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?  _Go_! I'll handle those idiots outside!"

Antonio managed to hoist Barney up again, stumble and stagger into the alley and limp out of sight. Lovino closed the door. And then he stepped out into the main shop area, where Salvatore was standing half-bent over and Cesare was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, semi-conscious.

"He got away," Lovino said calmly. He didn't know why he felt so calm, lying to people who could potentially kill him. It was probably the adrenaline.

"How the fuck did he get away?" Salvatore groaned—whined?—trying to straighten up.

"The same way he beat the shit out of the both of you," Lovino answered, dropping the baseball bat and leaning against the glass case, arms crossed, demeanour disinterested. "Now can you ladies walk, or do you need me to carry you?"

They made Lovino drive around the neighbourhood, looking for Antonio and Barney. Lovino was terrified he'd find them, terrified that this time, Antonio wouldn't be able to fight so well. Terrified that he'd have blood on his hands. But whatever Antonio was doing, it was working. It was like they'd vanished into thin air.

"Fuck it," Salvatore said after half an hour of this. "We beat up Barney enough anyway. Vargas, out."

"What?"

"Stop the car."

So Lovino did.

"Get out."

"You're not going to drop me back to my store?"

"Hell no, why should I? Get moving."

Lovino stepped out, almost  _fell_ out. He was shaking that much. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he was trembling all over, and the snow did nothing to help.

He watched them drive off.

What had he done? He'd attacked two completely innocent men. He'd done the unthinkable. And now, he was just as evil as Salvatore and Cesare were. Lovino staggered for a few paces until his quaking, horrified body gave in, and he had to sit down on the freezing sidewalk and just  _breathe._ Around him, normalcy was returning to the marketplace.

Lovino buried his head in his knees and he cried.

* * *

He didn't even go to church. He was too ashamed. He could ask for forgiveness and a thousand times—and he  _would_. But how would that help? God was merciful. But Lovino would never, ever let him forgive himself.

He didn't go home, either. He just sat at that sidewalk for hours. The chill burned into his coat and he was getting worried about frostbite, but Lovino deserved it. What had he done? What had he  _done_? Today, he'd crossed the line. He was a bad man.

It was only at nightfall that he pushed himself up and stretched to get the blood flowing. It hurt to walk after he'd been sitting still in the snow all day, but Lovino probably deserved that too. He was going back to  _The New Little Bakery_. He was going to inspect the damage he'd done. He was going to face it.

But only when he was right in front of it did he hear the noise. There. Antonio. He was sweeping up broken glass. The bakery was ruined. Only now did Lovino really take in the destruction. There was wood and plaster all over. There was a hole in the glass case Lovino hadn't noticed before. Blood on the floor.

Antonio suddenly looked up and tensed. He was still covered in blood and had to lean slightly to the right as he stood, but his green eyes were fearsome. Lovino was terrified of them. He was terrified of  _Antonio_.

There was a moment of silence.

"Come back to finish the job, have you?" Antonio asked quietly. How could a voice so soft be filled with so much hatred?

"I—"

"I stopped counting the number of people I've killed after the first thirty. So if you want to murder me, please,  _try._ "

Lovino swallowed, taking a step back. His eyes filled. "I let you escape. I never wanted to hurt you. I never— _Dio santo_ , I never wanted any of this." Pathetic of him, crying like a child. But his head dropped to his hands. He couldn't stop. The more he tried, the more tears came. "I'm sorry," he managed through his thick tears.

Lovino wasn't sure how many minutes passed, but when he was finally able to calm down, Antonio was looking at him like he had before. With shock, disbelief. And when Lovino was able to wipe his eyes and breathe normally, Antonio's gaze briefly fluttered towards the backdoor.

"Thank you," he muttered after a moment.

"What?" Lovino asked, his voice cracking. His throat hurt.

"You let us escape, right?" Antonio's eyes flashed at Lovino for one threatening moment before the rage in them vanished, replaced by something distant and emotionless. "Thank you for that."

Lovino shifted his weight from one foot to another. "I almost got you killed."

"No. Those other two men. They were hitting us. You just stood there. Why do you think I didn't attack you? I could have. I didn't. You may have actually saved Mr. Barney's life."

Lovino stared. That was…well, technically true. He hadn't attacked anyone. He'd—he'd helped Antonio escape. But he—how?—Nothing made sense. Had he actually done something so good? Lovino had never done anything significant before. Never.

"You're hurt," Lovino said after a moment of staring stupidly at Antonio.

Antonio glanced down at himself. "I've had worse."

"Isn't there a first-aid box here?"

"Yeah, of course, because this looks like the kind of place that would have a first-aid box! Oh did you know, we have a fully-equipped  _hospital_ tucked away in the kitchen." Antonio rolled his eyes as Lovino narrowed his. He'd never liked it when people gave him lip.

"You don't need to be so fucking sarcastic." This was better. He was feeling more himself suddenly.

Antonio placed Lovino under a calculating stare. "Why did you do it? Let us go?"

"Because I'm not an asshole. You think I hang out with them because they're my friends? Yeah, we definitely share beers and laugh about the size of our guns."

And to the complete surprise of the both of them, Antonio cracked a smile. "Was that intentional of you? To make that joke?"

Lovino huffed, crossing his arms. "Do I look like an intentional sexual joke kind of fellow to you?"

"Do they make you do it?" Antonio asked suddenly. "Hurt people?"

Lovino's eyes flickered away. He couldn't look at Antonio. "This is the first time that's happened."

"Oh." Antonio sucked in a cheek. Then he let out a small exhale. "I'm sorry."

"I'm an honest man," Lovino muttered. This had to be repeated over and over until everybody believed it. Because there were days when Lovino sure as hell didn't. He hugged himself and took a step deeper into the store. It wasn't very much warmer, though. "Didn't you go to the hospital?"

"I can't afford one. I can barely afford rent."

"So you…came back here?"

"To clean up. Mr. Barney loves this shop and I want to make it look as good as it can for him when he gets back to work." Antonio bent to continue sweeping. Lovino watched him wince.

"I have first-aid at my home."

Green eyes looked up sharply. "Good for you."

Lovino let out a long-suffering sigh. "You can come over, if you want."

"And why should I trust you? Besides, don't you live in Little Italy, with all your mafia friends? This looks like an ambush to me."

"God, you're fucking paranoid, aren't you?"

"You're telling me I shouldn't be? After what happened today?"

"This is a tough city. Learn to deal with it."

"I've been in  _much_ tougher cities."

"Good for you." Lovino pressed the bridge of his nose. "Come on. This isn't how anyone should be spending the New Year's night. I owe you at least a little bit of first aid. Stop being such a fucking drama queen."

Antonio was silent for a minute. "If anything, I owe you. Not the other way around."

"Great, I'll make a note of it in my book of pending favours. Now come on, will you?"

Antonio was considering it. Lovino could see that in the way his lips became a thin line. He didn't say anything for a full minute, just staring at Lovino like he couldn't understand what Lovino was doing. Honestly, Lovino didn't have a clue either. The way things were, both of them suspected each other of launching an attack at the slightest provocation. Lovino had no doubt in his mind that Antonio could beat him to a pulp despite his injuries, and wouldn't hesitate to if he suspected anything.

Lovino was a fairly good runner. He could slip away from danger if he really tried. Or he could hit back. Lovino had never been in an actual fight before, but he had strong muscles. He could definitely bruise his opponent pretty well.

"If I get ambushed…" Antonio warned finally, although his eyes gave away his hesitation. He looked just about ready to accept the offer.

"Jesus, you're not that important!" Lovino threw his hands in the air. "They went after Barney because he owed them money. You don't owe them shit, you just happened to get in their way today. Had you just  _stayed out of it_ , they wouldn't even have touched you."

Antonio crossed his arms, grimacing slightly as he did. "I wasn't going to let them hurt him like that."

"And that's noble and whatever. Now come on." Lovino turned on his heels and walked outside. "Pull the shutters down on this thing."

Slowly, the lights went off. Lovino waited as Antonio pulled the shutter down, locking it in place. "How far is Little Italy?"

"A bit of a walk, if you can handle it."

"Of course I can." Antonio paused and then said, "What's your name?"

"Lovino Vargas."

To his utter surprise, Antonio thrust out a hand. "Antonio Fernandez Carriedo."

Lovino stared warily at the palm before shaking it. "Why do you have two surnames?"

"It's a Spanish thing."

"You're Spanish?"

"Yes."

"So  _that's_ the accent."

"I thought I was losing it."

"Not at all."

* * *

They walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence. Antonio had some difficulty climbing up the stairs, not that he actually let Lovino help him. Though it wasn't like Lovino was following him around with a stretcher or anything anyway. They maintained just the right blend of distance and vague humanity.

Lovino made Antonio sit at the dining table as he went to get a bucket of hot water and a couple of wet rags. Lovino had an unopened bottle of spirit, a roll of cotton and bandages in his first aid box, all of which he carted out. "Take off your shirt," Lovino muttered.

Antonio sighed. "I can take care of myself. Thank you for your generosity, but I can handle this." Slowly, he unbuttoned his shabby white shirt.

Lovino gasped at the scars. There were so many of them, big and small ones littering a perfectly toned chest. But what really caught his eye was the small circular one at the side of his stomach. Was that from a bullet? Antonio glanced down at himself calmly, studying his newest wounds. The blood there had dried. There were few large bruises too. But Antonio turned his attention more towards the deep gash on his forearm. "That's going to need stitches," he muttered with a sigh.

"Were you in a war?" Lovino blurted.

" _Si_ ," Antonio replied automatically. "Do you have a clean needle and some thread?"

"I'm a tailor," Lovino retorted, which made Antonio smile slightly. "Hold on, I'll go get some."

There was a box of small needles, completely new. Lovino still put them in a pot of boiling water, just to be sure. And then he carried them in a plate, like some sort of strange antipasti.

" _Gracias_ ," Antonio said with a small smile as Lovino returned. "This should be more than enough." He'd cleaned all his wounds, leaving a pile of bloody cotton at his feet.

Lovino could  _not_ sit there and watch Antonio stitch himself back together. He'd probably throw up. So he quietly muttered something about making dinner before repairing to the kitchen. When he returned forty-five minutes later, he'd noticed that Antonio was buttoning on his dirty shirt.

"No, no fucking way. I can't eat staring at that blood. Wait here."

"Are you going to lend me a shirt?" Antonio asked Lovino's retreating figure with a laugh.

When Lovino returned, Antonio had unbuttoned his shirt and was staring down at his marred chest with slight curiosity. There were huge bruises everywhere, gashes and raw, irritated cuts. But Lovino still found himself getting slightly panicky at the sight. Someone as attractive as Antonio was not allowed to be shirtless in Lovino's presence, it wasn't fair. It made him extremely uncomfortable. Lovino wished he was attracted to women instead, because this wouldn't be considered so strange. But with the way Lovino's face was turning redder and redder, the way his tongue refused to cooperate beyond a stammer and the heat in his body made him so hyperaware of the temperature around him, Lovino knew he was being pretty fucking obvious.

Antonio, however, either didn't mind or didn't notice. Lovino was going with the latter. He just smiled politely when Lovino handed him the shirt, said a quiet, " _Gracias_ ," before throwing it on him and buttoning it up, one little button at a time—the way the shirt was slightly small for him, the way it caught onto his muscles in all the right places  _oh Dio_ —Antonio's large, powerful hands and that firm, well-defined jaw and— _for fuck's sake, no._

Lovino had to close his eyes and look away. No, no, no. He was going to think about the mafia. About Donatello and Salvatore and Alonso and Cesare and all the others. Yes. That was calming. Depressing, sure, but it got the job done.

"Hey," Antonio said suddenly, making Lovino internally cringe. "Where do I throw these bloodied cotton balls?"

"I'll do it," Lovino said quickly. It was revolting to even look at, but that was exactly the point. If he could disgust and depress himself enough, he'd reign in his thoughts. But garnishing the pasta distracted him from thinking about mafia and medical waste and sewers, because it only served to remind him how Antonio was right outside and probably hungry.

"Get it together, you fag," he whispered to himself firmly, as though insulting himself would give him confidence. Both hands holding two plates of pasta, Lovino walked out.

Antonio was rubbing his head slightly, which looked a bit worrying to Lovino's untrained eyes. He set the food on the table, keeping his eyes fixed on Antonio's, but thankfully thinking only of bleeding brains.

"You don't have a head injury, do you?" Lovino asked just as Antonio was putting the first forkful of penne in his mouth.

Antonio lowered the fork and frowned. "What is the word for that? Con…con…ah…" he laughed, scratching the back of his head. He was completely different from the murderous, snappy, sarcastic man he'd been not too long ago. " _Conmonción cerebral_ …what is the English word?"

 _"_ _Conmon_ —wait, you mean  _commozione cerebrale_. A concussion. God, you don't have a concussion, do you?"

Antonio laughed again. "No, of course not. This stupid cut hurts, that's all. I just wanted to learn the word properly. Would I be so aware of things had I a con…" his voice drifted off. "Concussion?" he asked with a hopeful smile.

"Yeah."

"English is difficult," Antonio muttered, putting some pasta in his mouth. "Oh! Your cooking is wonderful!"

"You speak it well," Lovino replied, trying to hide the blush. "Thanks."

"Thanks," Antonio repeated, and Lovino caught himself grinning back at Antonio's beaming smile. "I can't read it, though," Antonio went on. "It's impossible."

"It's basically bastardised French," Lovino muttered.

"I had a French friend!" Antonio said with a slightly waning smile. "He would have agreed with you, I think. He passed away, though."

Lovino made a face. "When the Germans…?"

"I have no idea, honestly. I haven't heard from him since March. So I'm just assuming…I mean, with all that's happened…"

Lovino understood that. It was too difficult to hope for a miracle. He was almost glad Antonio gave up after only a couple of months. Lovino had held on for a full decade before finally resigning to the fact that Feli and Grandpa were gone.

"My family in Italy went the same way," Lovino confessed, looking at his plate of food. "I-I mean…it was my fault. Sort of. Well, not really, but I still feel guilty. I feel guilty because I survived."

Antonio raised both his eyebrows and leaned forward in interest.

Lovino sighed, putting his fork down. "Well…I was eleven. My brother Fel—" his voice broke, but he picked up again, "Feliciano was eight. And always very poorly. He'd get sick all the time, you know? Some children have that sort of pathetic immunity."

"Yes, I know."

"Anyway, er…well," Lovino cleared his throat. "My grandfather took care of us. My parents died when we were young. My father had died in the Great War, in fact. Anyway, we were supposed to go to America. Grandpa had organised for everything. The fields were barren. Nothing was fucking  _growing_ anywhere. It was 1920. We were going to go on the ship…and then Feli…he got sick. We were only days away from departure but he got really, really sick. There was no way he would have survived the journey. Grandpa insisted I go, at the very least. He would stay back with Feli until my brother recovered, and would come to America to find me. That way, I'd have a chance, you know?"

"That's really selfless of him." Antonio reached forward and squeezed Lovino's hand. Lovino's eyes widened as Antonio pulled away. That was unexpected. "Sorry," Antonio said sheepishly. "Go on."

"Anyway…" Lovino mumbled, averting his gaze, "I was scared, of course. I was only eleven years old, for fuck's sake. But I sat on that boat. I wish I'd stayed behind with them, but I sat on that boat. And I came to New York and they never did. They  _never_ did. I tried to write to them but there was no response. Nothing. So I assumed they were dead. The kind of times we live in, honestly, people are more likely dead than alive." Lovino stabbed his penne with his fork. "That's my fucking sob story. What's yours?"

"Mine's not a sob story," Antonio replied simply as he resumed eating.

"You can't seriously expect me to believe that. Every immigrant has a sob story. What's yours?"

Antonio gave him a slightly amused smile. "I'm a former Republican soldier. I have been a farmer, a fighter, a refugee and now a baker. Isn't my life exciting?"

"Yes, I can feel my heart pulse."

The Spaniard guffawed. "All right, I'll tell you. I fought in the Spanish Civil War. Most men my age did. I was a Republican. That's where I learnt my English, by the way. I spent a lot of time with the troops from International Brigades. That's where I met my French friend, Francis." Antonio paused to eat, and continued, "Francis…you see, Francis was an idealist. He came from an affluent family, so he had the right upbringing to be an idealist, you know? He joined the International Brigades because he thought he was fighting fascism. Usually the French fighters were workers or communists, but not Francis. He wanted to defend the legitimate government against a fascist usurper. But the war's not as simple as that. Is it ever?" Antonio finished, his voice a tad softer. "But that's not the point. Francis and I saved each other's lives many times. But of course, the Republicans lost."

"And?"

"Franco…he started rounding up Republican soldiers and shooting them. Some were thrown into forced labour camps. Others were tortured. It was really horrible. They went after entire families. I don't know what happened to my mother, but I don't think she died painlessly. And I'm s _ure_ she's dead, by the way. Butchered." Antonio's eyes became very dark as he set the fork down, as though he was afraid to break it in a rage. "Francis was scared for me. He was going back to France and he insisted I come along. Of course, he wasn't the only one with the same idea. Thousands and thousands of Republicans crossed the border and escaped into France. I was just one of them.

"And the French government, bless their souls, they thought we'd spread communism there. And since most of my people were uneducated, illiterate and destitute…well, that caused some revulsion with the French, as you can imagine. And it wasn't just soldiers. There were women and children refugees too. Even elders and the disabled. It was like all of us expected France to bestow upon us a better tomorrow. We'd all find a husband or a wife there, settle down, become French citizens…that was the belief." Antonio sighed loudly, rubbing his face, only to wince when he irritated the cut on his forehead. "France made people go back to Spain, and also sent people to Mexico and some other places in the Americas, where there were only a handful countries willing to accommodate us.

"And Francis," Antonio said finally, a small, sad smiling coming to his face. "Like I said, he was from an affluent family. He was horrified at what was happening. So he was able to pull some strings—a lot of strings—and managed to get me out of there. Had I been sent back to Spain, I'd be shot. I guess Mexico was an option, but Francis made sure I got into the United States,  _with all my documents intact_. Don't ask me how. He had a contact here too, Alfred. And Alfred knows people in the government here. I don't know, basically, it involved a lot of string-pulling and favours on both ends."

There was a small silence. Lovino realised his pasta had become cold.

"Wow," he said after a while.

"I've been treated as a poor man, I've been treated as an enemy, but I never, ever,  _ever_ want to be treated like a refugee again," Antonio said firmly.

"I get that."

"Of course you do; you were one."

Lovino managed a smile.

"Weren't the Republicans communists, though?"

Antonio shrugged and sighed, before lowering his head on the table. "…Well, yes, I suppose that's true. But they started out as a democratically elected government. Britain and France didn't send any official aid. I don't mean the volunteers from International Brigades, but actual national-level support. Arms and finance and stuff. The Soviet Union, however, did. That should pretty much sum things up, no? Honestly, it's complicated, Lovino. I don't really understand that much myself. It's like an ideological cooking pot where the food is burnt and the stove's still on, making then the house catch fire.  _I_ can't stand communism or fascism, though. What about you?"

Lovino blinked. "I'm not taking any sides."

"Don't you have an opinion on this?"

"Not really."

"What about Mussolini?"

"He's an egghead."

Antonio burst out laughing. "Not a fascist supporter, then."

"No…it's…" Lovino made vague gestures with his hands. "I just think he's untrustworthy and stupid, that's all. I can't believe he's got the whole country convinced he's going to solve their problems."

"But it must be nice to live in a place where you have a say in who runs your government, right?" Antonio ventured. "Democracy is the dream."

"Don't you have an immediate dream? Does it always have to be this grandiose?"

"An immediate dream?"

"Something that New York can offer you. Like…like…getting the girl you love," Lovino finished lamely.

"Ah. Well, there is one thing."

"Yeah?"

"I'd like to feel at home here one day."

Lovino's lips twitched upwards slightly. "Have you heard the word 'diaspora'?"

Antonio shook his head. "What does that mean?"

"It's what we are."

"And what is that?"

"Eternally homeless. Not  _houseless_ , mind you. We'll have our houses, big and small. But  _home_ …that's just a bunch of folktales and something called a heritage." He looked at his hands, at his olive skin. His heart suddenly ached for a place he could barely remember.

Antonio smiled like he knew the secrets of the universe. "Now that's what I call a loss of innocence."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so typically me. I have exams going on right now, but no, no, I'll still upload a completely new fic, despite the fact that I haven't yet updated The Perfect Praline. But this idea, man. It just wouldn't let go. I had to write it. You don't understand. It was plaguing me.
> 
> I don't even know how quickly I'll update this. Chapter two is about halfway done, but I'm very poorly prepared for my exams so I SHOULD be focusing on them. Wish me luck. *Dry chuckle*.
> 
> I'm sorry if you see any historical inaccuracies. If you spot them, let me know, and I will try to change them. Thank you for reading! Please comment!


	2. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Bing Crosby was an American singer and actor. He had a warm-bass baritone voice and was known for his rather romantic crooning style of singing. The song mentioned in this chapter, Only Forever, was a hit in 1940, snagging the number one spot on the Billboard charts in October. Here, Lovino is listening to it in January 1941. I'm speculating, but I think the song would still have been popular enough to stay on the radio at this time.
> 
> Furthermore, the movie mentioned, Road to Zanzibar, also starred Bing Crosby. It was released in April 1941.
> 
> b) The Lend-Lease Act was signed by President Roosevelt in March 1941. By this act, America could legally deliver aid to Britain and other Allied countries (including USSR and China), by supplying finance and ammunition. This was also important economically, as it is believed that the Lend-Lease Act did much to boost America's depression-hit economy. This is in keeping with the theory proposed by the famous economist John Keynes, in his book The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money (published 1936). Although I don't really think we need to get into the theory, so moving on xD
> 
> c) A suffragette is a political activist (usually female) who demands women's voting rights. The election in 1920 was the first US presidential election where women were allowed to vote in every state. For this fic, I've always known that Amelia would be far more enthusiastic about this movement, even though it wouldn't be as prominent in 1941. Anyway, Amelia and Madeline's mother was a suffragette.
> 
> d) "Materiel" is the official word for military weapons and arms. Not to be confused with the word "material".
> 
> e) Pearl Harbour, as I'm sure you all know, was when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour, Hawaii, on December 7th, 1941. This triggered America's entry into World War Two.
> 
> Also, I've made some small factual changes in the first chapter. In 1940, people didn't actually know about Hitler's death camps. There were rumours, but nothing was certain. So I've edited Gilbert and Lovino's conversation a bit.
> 
> EDIT: Special thanks to EllisDream from fanfiction.net for help with the research. The one thing I completely forgot to look up was prices/wages in the 1940s, and as a result, got everything waaay off. So I've fixed that now. It's not exactly accurate. We could only find data from the early thirties and mid forties, but I've made a rough estimate about the prices in this time period.

Part Four: The King of Central Park

* * *

Antonio didn't see Lovino after that night. Not for a couple of weeks, at least. Antonio had left Lovino's house after dinner. He thought about it a lot. About everything. Mr. Barney was more or less all right now. He'd borrowed money from a cousin in Los Angeles to pay back the mafia. But that still didn't mean he felt any safer anymore. There was now a shotgun in the kitchen, and Mr. Barney was always looking over his shoulder. He had some nasty bruises on his face and walked with a heavy limp, but at least he was alive.

It was a bright day when Antonio tried to read the papers again. He could see from the pictures that something had happened. He could make out the word  _Africa—_ it was almost the same in Spanish—but Mr. Barney was in the kitchen, and anyway, reading made his head hurt these days.

His eyes flickered up when he saw a familiar figure enter the store, and the two of them just stared at each other. Lovino looked tired and cold.

"Oh," Antonio said quietly, folding the newspaper.

"I thought you said you couldn't read English," Lovino began after a moment. His voice held this strange ability to sound like silence. As though it could never disturb the quiet, but radiate it.

"I can't," Antonio replied, his tone hushed.

Lovino glanced at the paper. "May I?" He stretched an arm out. Antonio nodded slowly, opening up to the page he wanted Lovino to read. Lovino glanced at it briefly before saying, "The Allies took Tobruk in North Africa. Apparently it's an important port city."

"Oh. That's good." Antonio exhaled.

"Yeah." Lovino folded the paper and put it away. His eyes darted about the shop. "You managed to fix it up pretty well." Even the glass case had been replaced.

"Why are you here?" Antonio could feel his heart race, although he couldn't understand why. He was  _excited_ that Lovino was here. He  _wanted_  Lovino to be here. It was the kind of thing he should have felt for a woman. Only Francis had known about his…preferences. Francis had never minded.

There were footsteps. The backdoor swung open, and Mr. Barney froze at the sight of Lovino. "No, please. I paid. I—Antonio, get the gun!"

Lovino winced, like the words physically hurt him.

"Mr. Barney," Antonio said gently, stepping out from behind the counter and laying a gentle hand on his boss's shoulder. "He's the one I told you about. The one who let us escape. The good one."

Mr. Barney inhaled sharply, staring at Lovino. Antonio slowly tried to pry the tray full of breads from his hands before he dropped it or flung it at someone. Lovino swallowed. "I haven't come here to hurt you," he said simply, quietly. "I…Actually, I—" To Antonio's complete amazement, Lovino's face became cherry red. "It doesn't matter," he said finally. "Forget it. I'm sorry." And he turned gracefully on his heels and walked out.

Antonio felt his stomach drop. "Can you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Barney?" Lovino's figure was retreating and had already slipped out of Antonio's line of sight. He didn't wait for his boss to answer. He just skipped out of the bakery.

Lovino was only a few paces ahead. Antonio could hear him muttering to himself with his hands flying about angrily.

"Wait! Lovino, wait! Stop!"

The Italian turned just as Antonio crossed the distance between them.

"Why did you come here?" Antonio asked, very slightly breathless.

Lovino was still scarlet. "Look, it's nothing. Forget it."

"No, tell me. Please. If it's about that day, Mr. Barney is very thankful and so am I. So don't feel guilty about it. You saved our lives. Definitely his."

"No, that's not…" Lovino sighed, putting his hands in the pocket of his coat. "I was wondering if you would like to come to Central Park with me later. I just—well—you deserve to know," he finished finally, sucking in a cheek.

"I have lunch break in twenty minutes," Antonio offered with a smile. "What do I deserve to know?"

"Why. Why they…why they make me do things for them."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Lovino reached pulled out his wallet from his coat and fished out a couple of cents. "And this is for that pastry you gave me the other day. I don't like owing people money."

"No, that was free. Please, I won't accept it."

Lovino's golden eyes widened slightly. "Just fucking take it. I hate martyr acts."

Antonio found himself laughing. "It was supposed to be a present. You looked like you were having a bad day. I thought a free cake would cheer you up. Although now I've learnt that that's just what your face is like. Perpetually forlorn."

"Hey!" Lovino's eyes suddenly turned sharp and indignant. "I don't have a perpetually forlorn face!"

"You do. A little bit." Antonio grinned. "But that's okay! It's not a bad face in any way. It actually makes you look wise or something."

" _Makes me look wise_ —I already  _am_ wise, thank you! And for your information—wait." The steam from Lovino's annoyance fizzled out, replaced by surprise and confusion. "You don't think I have a bad face? What's that supposed to mean?"

Oh dear. He'd messed up now, hadn't he?

Antonio backtracked, fast. "What I mean is—you know—as faces go, yours isn't half bad! That's all!"

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "Should I be flattered or insulted?"

Antonio buried his head in his hands. "Just forget it. I speak without thinking. It's my worst trait."

"It's mine too," Lovino replied softly. Antonio looked up to see him smile.

"You don't look so forlorn when you smile like that."

"Isn't that basically the  _definition_ of smiling?"

Antonio laughed.

* * *

"These hot dogs are so good." Antonio was only vaguely aware of Lovino's grimace. "Why are they called hot dogs, though?" Antonio's eyes suddenly went wide. "They're not made from puppies, are they?"

"Are you trying to be funny, or are you just that stupid?" Lovino muttered as they walked through Central Park.

"Sorry! This is the first time I'm eating this stuff. It's really delicious, though."

Lovino just sighed, and Antonio watched him run a gloved hand through his hair. "I owe you an explanation. And twelve cents."

"Actually, that cake was fifteen cents."

"Highway robbery."

"It's not and you know it."

Lovino groaned. "Can we just  _focus?_ "

"You brought up the cake money!"

"Eat your hot dog and shut up."

"Mean," Antonio muttered before taking another bite.

A long-suffering sigh, and then, "I told you, I was just eleven when I got here. They sent me to an orphanage."

Antonio lowered the hot dog to stare at Lovino openly.

Lovino didn't look back. "I had no money. So I started slipping out and pick-pocketing things."

"Wow, seriously?"

"Yeah. Watches, wallets, loose change, I once even managed to steal an engagement ring. This guy had it in his pocket and I just slipped my hand in and took it."

"Poor guy."

"Yeah. He must have spent his whole month's salary on that. And what did I do with it? I lost it." Lovino laughed softly at himself. "It slipped from my hands and went down the drain. But anyway, what I meant to say was, I did this a lot."

"Uh-huh."

"And one day, I picked the wrong guy's pockets. I was twelve then. And I stole Padrone Donatello's wallet. Of course, he wasn't  _Padrone_ then, but a high-ranking lieutenant." Lovino stared at the snowy landscape. His eyes were very far away. "He found out instantly. At first, he almost hit me. But then he took me aside and told me if I wanted to earn some  _real_ money, to come that night to this warehouse in Harlem." All at once, Lovino's gaze pierced into Antonio's. "Illegal wrestling. And Donatello, he asked me to take bets."

"Like a bookie?"

"Yeah. I don't know why he picked me. I guess he was amused that a kid could steal his wallet with such ease." Lovino shrugged. "That's how it started. First he promised me money and then he started giving me lavish food. But the jobs, they got much worse. Taking bets was simple. But he made me burn cars and hide drugs. I'd do his work, and then he'd leave me alone for, oh, months, years. Then out of the blue he'd tell me to do his shit again. I was about sixteen when I told him I wasn't going to do it. I was working three legitimate jobs to save money and I wanted out."

"Did he hurt you?" Antonio asked quietly.

"Oh, no. He said all right. And then a month later, someone from his group asked me to go talk to someone about some money they owed. That's how the threatening started. They'd walk in at any time they wanted, tell me who to bully and I had to do it, no questions asked."

"That's why you showed up at Mr. Barney's place that day? To threaten him?"

"Yeah. And you can't refuse the mafia."

"Hmm," Antonio replied.

"And if I try, they'd kill me. Or hurt me. Or at the very least, bash in my shop."

"Can't you go to the police?"

Lovino started to laugh.

"What?"

"Don't be stupid, Antonio."

Something caught Antonio's eye. Up ahead, underneath a barren tree, someone had set up a small stool and a table and was playing chess. By themselves. In the snow. "What's he doing?" Even more interesting was the man's complexion. He was really white. Abnormally so.

Lovino looked too. "What's he doing here?"

"You know him?"

Lovino sighed. "Uh, yes. Briefly."

As they approached, the man glanced up. His red eyes—red, wow—widened. "Lovino?"

"Gilbert."

Lovino and Antonio were standing over this Gilbert, who was moving the black and white pieces around in seemingly random ways. Then again, Antonio didn't know how to play this game.

"This is Antonio," Lovino muttered simply.

"Hello." Antonio went to shake his hand.

Gilbert smirked. " _Antonio_ , is it? Lovino a friend of yours?"

Beside him, Lovino turned red again. Antonio glanced to him, frowning mildly. "Uh…I guess so, in a manner of speaking?"

Gilbert's smirk only deepened. "I see. Pleasure to meet you."

"Oh shut up. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?" Lovino threw a scornful glance at the chessboard. "Don't you have a job or something?"

"Don't  _you_?"

"Shut up!"

Gilbert laughed loudly, gesturing to the seat in front of him. "Sit down and play against me. I'm getting bored doing this by myself."

"I don't know how," Antonio confessed.

"And you think I do?" Lovino put his hands on his hips and glared at Gilbert. "Aren't you cold?"

"Nah. I'm winning."

"Against yourself."

"Lovino," Gilbert said seriously, red eyes fixed into golden ones, "It's better than playing against yourself and losing."

"That's true." Antonio nodded his head. He found himself liking this Gilbert. Lovino just groaned.

"It's easy," Gilbert went on. "Here, I can teach you." Antonio watched him reset all the pieces, black on one side and white on the other. "So this," he carefully touched one of them, "This is the king. The objective of the game is the kill the other guy's king. It's the most vulnerable piece on the board, because it can only move one step in any direction and it needs constant protection." Then he touched the one right next to it. "And this one is the queen. She's the most powerful piece. She can go anywhere she wants to, for as many steps as the wants to. She is your most important piece. Okay so far?"

"Okay," Antonio said, although beside him, Lovino just sighed and muttered something in Italian.

Gilbert ignored him, but grinned at Antonio before turning back to the board. "And these two, here, they—" Gilbert froze, eyes going beyond Antonio.

"What is it?" Antonio half-turned. He was getting very tired of unpleasant surprises. All he could see though, were two blonde women walking with each other, one of them talking actively as she shook her shopping bags around, the other listening in silence.

"It's Madeline. Oh my god, it's Madeline." Gilbert stood so violently that the table with the chess board toppled over. Lovino turned as well, studying the two women.

Antonio supposed it must look a bit odd, three men standing there silently staring as a pair of women walked past. Gilbert scrambled behind the tree, though. That made things interesting. "Tell me when they're gone."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Lovino went towards Gilbert. "Go talk to her."

"Are you insane?"

"Are  _you_?"

This was fascinating. Lovino placed both hands on Gilbert's shoulders and looked at him unwaveringly. Antonio was so captivated with the way his golden eyes shimmered. They were firm and yet comforting. Lovino could be so gentle when he wanted to.

"Go. Talk. To. Her. You have no hope of getting married to her if you're such a dickless pansy that you're too scared to even say hello. I wouldn't let a  _coward_ marry my daughter, albino or otherwise."

"But she's with her sister."

"So say hello to Amelia too. Christ." Lovino rolled his eyes. Suddenly, all gentility left him as he hauled Gilbert by the collar and forced him out, practically throwing him onto the oncoming path. Antonio gasped as he almost fell face-first before the women.

Amelia shrieked in surprise, but Madeline gasped, bending down to Gilbert's level. "Mr. Beilschmidt? Oh dear, are you all right?"

"Do you know him, Maddie?" Amelia asked.

Madeline's cheeks turned a little pink as she looked up at Amelia, softly mumbling, "He's—um, well, a neighbour." She turned back to him, helping him up. Gilbert kept stuttering incoherently as she examined a slight bruise on his head.

Beside Antonio, Lovino smirked. "Italians know romance."

"Well done, I must say," Antonio cheered. He shifted from one foot to another. "So, are you married?"

What a stupid way to carry on a conversation.  _Excellent job, Antonio. That was wonderfully suspicious._

Lovino tilted his head and regarded him curiously. "No."

"Why's that? You're like…thirty, aren't you?"

He turned red. "Just because I'm thirty-one, doesn't mean I need to be married and have children. I think that's a young age to marry, anyway."

"Oh," Antonio breathed. He watched his breath frost before him.

"It's starting to snow," Lovino observed, his gaze travelling to the grey sky.

It was so pretty, the way those little flecks of white fell. Something ethereal about it. Before them, Gilbert was making Madeline and Amelia laugh about something. And less than four feet away, Antonio was enchanted with the clouds.

Lovino stuck out his perfectly pink tongue to catch a snowflake, and Antonio watched him do it.

Antonio was enchanted with the clouds. And Lovino.

* * *

Part Five: Love

* * *

Lovino spent the evening wandering around the stores, ignoring the cold as he always did. There was this one shop which sold radios, and it kept playing Bing Crosby's  _Only Forever_. Every time Lovino walked by it, that song was unmistakably there. Lovino could barely tolerate the man's irritating croon.

_Do I want to be with you, as the years come and go? Only forever, if you care to know. Would I grant all your wishes and be proud of the task? Only forever, if someone should ask._

Lovino wished Crosby would just shut up. Even when Lovino passed the store, the song would be stuck in his head, playing over and over and over again, reminding him how he was starting to feel the familiar headiness and pleasant melancholy that came with…falling for somebody.

Affection could come some so quickly, without barely even much prompting. But he'd spent the day walking and talking with Antonio, or just standing in silence under awnings as the snow fluttered down. Wasn't that more than enough? Wasn't that enough to trigger an emotion like this? Not love, no. Lovino had never been in love before. But this infatuation…

He hadn't been in too many relationships, but he had enough experience to know this feeling. It was so pointless to insist that he was wasting his time, that he shouldn't be feeling this at all. Now, Lovino just gave in to the drift of it, ambling up and down the street, looking at the same shops three and four times over, buying nothing.

_How long would it take me to be near you if you beckoned? Off hand I would figure, less than a second. Do you think I'll remember how you looked when you smile? Only forever, that's putting it mild._

He didn't go back to Antonio's bakery for the next week. Lovino kept to himself, making suits and dresses and hats, nodding at neighbours, going to church, plastering the flaking walls of his apartment. He was Lovino the Simple Man with not a single ambition or emotion. Lovers came and went. All of it was, eventually, pointless.

But then he saw Antonio in Little Italy the following Monday, peering at some paint cans at the hardware store, and something magnetic and familiar made Lovino step out of  _Vargas Tailor_ for a few minutes to go and investigate.

Antonio smiled widely when their eyes met. Between furious waves of the hand from his part and quiet, curt nodding on Lovino's, Antonio happily informed him that he was repainting his apartment and couldn't pick a colour, so could Lovino please offer an opinion? To which Lovino asked, "Why did you come all the way here to buy paint?"

Antonio smiled quietly to himself without looking at Loivno. He said nothing in response, except, "There are so many colours to choose from."

"Tomato red," Lovino replied offhandedly, gesturing with vague nonchalance at one of the cans of paint on the shelves.

"No," Antonio replied. "Not red. It reminds me too much of blood."

Lovino swallowed and nodded. "How about simple white?"

"Gets dirty easily." Antonio laughed at himself.

They settled on pale yellow, something pleasantly creamy. Then Antonio followed Lovino to his store for no apparent reason. "It's called  _Vargas Tailor_ ," he said proudly as Antonio stared blankly at the English letters.

The Spaniard paused at the name, scrunched his nose up and asked, "My English is pretty sketchy, but is the grammar correct? It sounds funny."

"Your English is  _fine_ , and I don't care if the name of my shop is grammatically incorrect. Do you want to buy a suit? If not, then you don't even need to be here."

"Where would I wear a suit?"

"How about a hat, then?"

Antonio grinned widely and walked back home, a few dollars poorer, but with a nice new black hat on his head and Lovino's business card in his pocket. Lovino hoped Antonio would call back.

At home, Lovino turned on the Italian radio, listening to a show. And when he got tired of that he switched to English, but all that played was one love song after another. Lovino wondered what Antonio was doing right now. He was starting to wonder that a  _lot._

* * *

"Is that a new hat? Where did you get it?" asked Mr. Barney when Antonio wore it to work. Admittedly, it looked slightly ridiculous on his otherwise shabby clothes. The hat was really fine, black and shapely, nothing like his faded trousers and fraying shirts. But the hat made Antonio look very handsome, even if he thought so himself. He'd never seen himself as a hat kind of person, but he loved this hat and he wanted to show it off.

Antonio laughed as he made a showy bow and tipped his hat towards Mr. Barney. Antonio was sweeping the floor as Mr. Barney arranged the goods in the glass case. He looked better. His bruises were fading away. Antonio felt good too. He said, "I bought it from a friend's tailor shop. Isn't it nice?" He didn't know why, but he didn't want to mention Lovino. Somehow, that felt too personal.

"Very nice, very nice," Mr. Barney said with a chuckle and the shake of his head.

Antonio grinned and exhaled through his nose, angling the mop to get at a far corner of the room.

"So, how are you settling in over here?" Mr. Barney asked, just to make conversation.

"It's actually quite wonderful." And Antonio meant it, too.

"Have you made any friends?"

Antonio shrugged. "There's a Mr. Kiku Honda who lives in the apartment opposite mine. He's very quiet but we trade sugar and milk and stuff whenever one of us runs out. And of course, my friend Alfred's around, but he keeps rather busy."

"Is that all?" Mr. Barney stopped aligning pastries and looked up with wide eyes.

Antonio gave the man a half-smile. "Yes, I suppose." He paused for a moment, and then dared to venture, "Um, there's someone else. Someone, um, you know, someone I know." Swiftly, Antonio gave up that line of conversation, turned and pretended to be very engrossed in cleaning. Why in the world did he want to bring up Lovino so badly? Besides, it wasn't like he could. It wasn't proper. It probably wasn't even legal.

Mr. Barney laughed. "What's her name, then, son?"

A steady warmth grew from the back of Antonio's neck, to his face and then to his ears. He turned very, very slowly. "I don't know what you're—"

His eyes met the other man's wide grin. "Oh, go on. Tell me."

"Lovi—" and then Antonio quickly added, "—na." And then he paused before repeating. "Lovina." And then because 'Lovina' didn't even sound like a real name, he went on, "Lovinara." That sounded better, didn't it?

"Lovinara? What kind of name is that?"

Antonio shrugged. "Um, she works at her father's tailor shop."

Mr. Barney laughed. "She the one that give you the hat?"

Antonio touched his hat self-consciously. "Maybe." What the hell. Now that he'd dug a hole, he might as well dig it deep. "I can't figure out how to talk to her. We don't live nearby. I don't really have an excuse, you see."

To his mild surprise, Mr. Barney approached him and thumped him on the back. "Men your age should have more experience."

"I've always been a little shy." It wasn't exactly true, but it would work. Antonio's experience with relationships had been pathetic at best, anyway. A short rendezvous during one of the soldiers in the war had been about it. Francis had known. Francis had helped.

"Well, if she is a tailor…" Mr. Barney raised an eyebrow as though he was implying something.

Antonio instantly understood.

That night, he laid out some of his very few shirts on the bed. He picked out three which he liked least. All of them were admittedly quite scruffy, but they weren't torn or even patched-up. So Antonio felt slightly stupid doing what he was doing now.

He took the kitchen knife and ran it through the seams. But it looked too mathematical. No, no, this had to look like a bunch of innocent mistakes. Antonio scratched randomly at the shirts with the blade, essentially tearing them into haphazard ribbons. "What am I doing with my life?" he asked himself quietly.

Making an excuse to see a man that was definitely not interested in him. That was what he was doing.

"I'm the king of logic."

It was like the freshly painted cream walls were laughing at him.

* * *

Lovino was running the sewing machine over a peach dress when Antonio entered. The two of them gaped silently at each other for a moment, after which Lovino sighed and asked, "What are you doing here?"

Antonio tipped his new hat to him, just because he could. He didn't miss Lovino's little smirk. Then Antonio presented a bag full of his ripped up clothes. "I thought you could fix these back?"

He watched as Lovino stopped the machine, standing up and taking the bag from him. He peered inside, frowned, and then dipped his hand in. Out came tatters of neatly cut shirts. Lovino laid them on the counter in long, patient columns. He just stared. "What the hell happened to these things? It's like you chopped them up with a scissor or a knife or something. Intentionally."

Antonio managed a small, awkward chuckle. How had Lovino found out this quickly? It wasn't that obvious, was it? The man was looking at him with sceptical frown and questioning golden eyes. "Did you cut these shirts up intentionally?" he asked after a prolonged moment.

"No! That's silly. Why would I do that?"

Lovino stared at him for another long moment, not saying a word. Finally he sighed, put everything back in the bag, and said, "Fine. I'll do my best. You can come back on Thursday and pick them up."

Thursday? No! It was only Monday now! Antonio didn't want to be sent away so unceremoniously. He'd only just got here.

"It's a bit urgent, actually. Can you finish them today?"

"Where are  _you_ going that you need shirts urgently?"

"I—nowhere. I'm just completely out of clothes." This wasn't very far from the truth, actually.

Lovino raised an eyebrow, pursed his lips and shook his head. "I need to finish this dress first and then I've got someone coming in to pick up their suits. So you'll have to wait."

"I don't mind waiting!" That was exactly the point of this visit. 'Waiting' with Lovino. "For how long?"

Lovino glanced at his watch. "I need another two hours before I can get started on your stuff."

Perfect.

Antonio grinned.

* * *

"You don't have to wait here for two hours."

…

"I'm serious."

…

"Hey! Don't touch that! Antonio, for pity's sake—"

"Ow!"

"Idiot. I  _told_ you not to touch it."

…

"Lovi, are you hungry?"

"Call me 'Lovi' one more time and I'll stab you in the eye with a needle."

"That's quite creative, Lovi."

"Shut the fuck up."

…

"I'm hungry."

"For the last time,  _you don't even have to be here_."

"But you've got my shirts!"

"Well,  _I'm a fucking tailor_."

…

"I got hot dogs!"

"Shit."

…

"Those were pretty tasty, weren't they?"

"It's better than nothing. Here. I'm getting started on your shirts now."

"Ooh. How long will it take?"

"A while. Go somewhere and do something productive."

"I took the day off from work."

"Ugh."

…

…

…

"These shirts are as good as new, Lovi!"

"Yeah, that'll be—one dollar fifty."

"What? That's it?"

"Um, yeah. We've got a discount thing going on."

"Wow, really?"

"Yeah."

"I was thinking it would be way, way more expensive."

"Well, it's not."

"Wow, Lovi. You're the best."

"Right."

* * *

Lovino went to  _The New Little Bakery_ at least once a week. Barney the Baker hadn't exactly warmed up to him, but at least he wasn't being paranoid or violent or screaming for Antonio to get the gun anymore. Anyway, Lovino liked paying for things at this dingy place. It settled his conscience. Besides, the cakes and breads weren't half bad.

Also, Antonio seemed to like having him around. Which was…strange. Lovino was never sure until the last moment whether someone was queer or not. For some reason, it was even harder with Antonio. Presumably because Antonio was nice to everyone, man or woman. He had natural grace with people. Lovino had noticed that on the few times he walked in when there were other customers. Antonio chatted with them enthusiastically, always helping them choose the best breads, always allowing them to have a free cookie or pastry if they looked like they were having a bad day. It was really quite a remarkable way of doing business.

But then, it was probably no different than what Lovino had done for Antonio. One dollar fifty for three shirts that had been so badly damaged? Lovino might as well have just done the repairs for free. Besides, those shirts had looked intentionally ripped up. As though Antonio had planned the whole thing. Now why would he do that? To have an excuse to talk to Lovino?

No, no, no. That was just his imagination getting creative and wistful again.

Of course there was a bakery in Little Italy. There were several. But Lovino still came all the way here to buy his bread. It lacked authenticity but it tasted all right. For American bread, anyway. Antonio was almost always struggling over the newspaper, so whenever Lovino saw him at it, he offered to translate.

"Have you ever just considered reading a Spanish newspaper?" Lovino asked him in exasperation one day.

"I looked. I can't find one."

"Then why don't you learn how to read English?"

"It's really hard, Lovino."

"I learnt. I could teach you."

"What?"

Yeah. Exactly. What?

But every evening, they ended up going to Central Park with a notebook. Lovino wasn't much of a reader himself, but he got by. It was difficult in winter, but as spring came, it got easier to sit under trees and teach Antonio about At, Bat, Cat, Rat, Mat, and how 'Ph' made an 'F' sound and how it wasn't 'ei' but 'ie' for most words. Antonio still learnt very slowly. Lovino wasn't the best teacher, anyway. But hey, Antonio could read the simple sentences, and that was still something, wasn't it?

"The…Lend-um…what's this?" he pointed at a word in the newspaper. Lovino never understood why Antonio always insisted on reading the newspapers. Particularly when there were other, less depressing things, to read.

"Lease. The Lend-Lease."

"Thanks. The Lend-Lease Bill was s-syy-syynnged—"

"Signed.  _Syy-nd_."

"Why do they have a 'g' there if they don't even pronounce it?"

"Because that's English for you."

Antonio sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Okay. The Lend-Lease Bill was  _syy-nd_  into law by Pr-presi- _president_ ," Antonio declared triumphantly, "Roosevelt earlier this week. This bill will allow the U-knee-t—that's not right. Yuu-ahhh…I get it. Basically it's USA."

Lovino rolled his eyes. "Say the full name, Antonio. You're never going to learn if you take short-cuts."

Antonio groaned, but repeated, "Yuu-niii—ted. United. Is that right?"

"Yeah."

"United States to provide un—oh god," Antonio stared silently at the word. "It's huge. I don't know how to—I can't—"

Lovino took the newspaper from Antonio, took his hand and gentle traced a finger over the word. "Don't get overwhelmed. Just break it up into smaller parts. Read it slowly. You know the sounds, don't you?"

"Sort of?" Antonio replied with a nervous smile. He didn't seem to mind the way Lovino was holding his hand, which was interesting.

"Okay. Then just read it. Slowly."

"All right." Antonio cleared his throat. "Un-res-t-t-" A sudden groan, and then Antonio buried his head in his hands. "I can't do this."

"If the Americans can do it, so can you." Lovino slapped him lightly on the crown. "Just focus. This is easy."

"Unrestr—" Antonio paused, frowned and swallowed. "Unrestric—unrestricted?" He looked up hopefully at Lovino.

"Yeah. Unrestricted. It means 'without restrictions' or 'without limitations'."

"I knew that." Antonio cleared his throat. "Unrestricted ability to supply mate-materiel to the Allied powers."

"Now read the whole thing over again, without stumbling. Slowly."

Antonio sighed. "The Lend-Lease Bill was signed into law by President Roosevelt earlier this week. The bill will allow the United States to provide—" Antonio paused, took a deep breath and very carefully said, " _Un-res-tric-ted_  ability to supply materiel to the Allied powers."

"Great!"

"Thanks! But I have a question."

"Shoot."

"I thought it was spelled as M-A-T-E-R-I-A-L, but this paper has spelled it differently. Materiel with an 'E'."

Lovino stared at it for a moment, and then at Antonio. "Maybe it means something different?" Honestly, he had no clue either. He'd never paid such close attention to these things. Lovino barely read the news. It saddened him. And he didn't read too many novels or anything, either.

"It doesn't matter," Antonio said after a moment. He was smiling. "Can we keep reading?"

"Yeah. Until the light goes down. Next sentence, go on."

"A—Akk-orr-d-ding—oh, got it.  _According_ to the…"

Antonio worked hard. Lovino could see that. He was always trying to read shop signs and he was persistent with his newspapers. There were always a lot of big words, some of which even Lovino didn't understand. But it was quite pleasant, like this. A wonderful way to spend an evening, sitting under a tree and learning how to read.

One day after a hard bout of reading, Antonio produced two tickets from his back pocket. "Mr. Barney had these to spare. Would you like to accompany me? I don't want to go alone, and I don't really know anyone else."

They were movie tickets for  _Road to Zanzibar_.

"Is this a Bing Crosby movie?" Lovino asked quietly, taking one of the tickets from him.

"Uh…I think so? That's what it says on the poster I saw the other day. The word 'road' was really intimidating but I got it eventually. I always read it as ro-aad, so it takes a bit of getting used to. But yes, it said Bing Crosby's in the movie."

"His voice is so irritating. He's always on the radio."

"I don't have a radio."

"Of course you don't."

"So will you come?"

Lovino felt his face go hot. This was nothing. This meant nothing. Nothing, nothing, noth—"Well, if you  _have_ a spare ticket…"

* * *

"You go first and then I'll come in later."

Antonio paused in mid sentence. He was talking about how this was his first ever English movie or something like that when Lovino interrupted in. He raised both eyebrows and blinked. "Huh?"

Lovino was red enough as it was. He was now hugging himself as he averted his eyes. His blush only deepened. "We don't want people thinking there's something…you know, improper…going on."

"Oh." Antonio's voice was rather soft. He looked a little forlorn and tired when he smiled next, offering one of the tickets to Lovino. "You're right. Go on in. I'll follow a few minutes later." Just as Lovino was taking the ticket from him, he added, "I never wanted to make you uncomfortable. It's not—I mean—we're just friends." Antonio's face was getting steadily redder. "I didn't—my intentions—" and then he gave up, burying his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Lovino blinked. "It's fine." After a swallow or two, he went on, "No, I get it. It's—yeah—" there was literally no easy way to have this conversation, since Lovino had no idea what to say, or even what this conversation was supposed to be. He swallowed again. "You're—we're—not, you know—that's just  _sick_ , isn't it?" Lovino knew he wasn't convincing enough, and from the confused, languid stare Antonio placed him under, he felt like he'd given his preferences away.

Antonio's gaze shifted. "It's pretty disgusting, yeah. They should be, you know, converted or something." He was biting his bottom lip. "Fags," he muttered, but it said it like he was trying out a new word, a word he didn't understand the meaning of.

"Cocksuckers," Lovino agreed quietly, hugging himself even tighter. "Yeah, they should be…converted. Through church."

"Um." Antonio jerked his head towards the cinema doors. "In you get. I'll follow you in a few minutes."

Lovino swallowed just once more. He hated pretending to hate himself. He'd done that a lot growing up, and he was now at a stage where he was just about starting to accept that maybe it didn't matter if he was homosexual. People said whatever they wanted to say. It was the same hate that black people got and the same hate that caused religious wars, and eventually people would understand how ridiculous it all was. Surely. One day.

He sat in the darkness, waiting and wondering and hoping Antonio wouldn't take very long. Was it possible Antonio was homosexual too? The way he acted around Lovino sometimes…like, like before. With all the blushing and shyness and the apologies. Was he perhaps interested in Lovino?

There should have been an easier way to tell. If Antonio was a woman, Lovino wouldn't have a problem. He'd often thought about what he'd do if he was attracted to a woman. Why, he could just proclaim his affections aloud, without fear. There were lots of pretty Italian girls in Little Italy. If only he could find them attractive.

Antonio managed to squeeze his way down the row of seats just as the opening credits of the movie began. He sat beside Lovino without a word, but from the glow of the screen, Lovino caught Antonio shoot him a small, friendly smile.

Lovino didn't smile back, but he let out an exhale. Whatever emotion that was supposed to convey.

* * *

They went to a lot of movies after that day. Sometimes Antonio would pay for them. Sometimes Lovino would. Sometimes they'd just split. But it took away the melancholy. In Lovino's mind, there was nothing more depressing than watching a movie alone. That was why he never went. But it was more fun with Antonio, because afterwards, they'd go get something to eat while Antonio wildly gushed about all the characters and all the parts he liked and all the parts he didn't, with Lovino offering one snide comment after another.

They did it the same way, too. First Lovino would enter. Antonio would loiter outside for a few minutes before following. They pretended not to know each other for the duration of the film, but when they stepped out again, Antonio could never resist talking.

Curiously enough, Antonio showed up one day at  _Vargas Tailor_ with a badly ripped up pair of trousers in a bag. "This crazy dog attacked me," he said with wide, serious eyes.

"Yeah, I'll bet."

One morning, Lovino spent about forty minutes agonising over which cake he should buy because the neighbours were throwing a surprise birthday party for eighty-five year old Signore Agnello and Lovino was tasked with getting the cake. Antonio showed him every single one of the cakes they had, between laughter and anecdotes, and after all of that, gave it away almost for free.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's fucking expensive."

"We're having a birthday discount! I swear!"

"Uh-huh."

One day as they sat under a tree and read newspapers together, Lovino dipped a hand into his bag and pulled out a book. It was an old, dusty tattered thing with the binding tearing off.

"Alice's Ad-ad-ad-ven—oh. Alice's Adventures in Won-Wonderl-Wonderland.  _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ by Lewis Carroll," Antonio read out slowly. Then he lowered the book, raised an eyebrow and looked at Lovino with questioning eyes. "What's this?"

Lovino's face reddened. "You seem to enjoy reading. This might help. I've heard it's good. It's been with me for years but I've never read it." The only other book Lovino owned was the Bible. It was the only one he cared to read.

Antonio smiled widely as he opened to the first page. "Let's read it together, then!"

On the Fourth of July, Antonio showed Lovino his apartment and they sat by the window and watched the fireworks. Antonio had a wonderful view. The fireworks dazzled in Antonio's eyes, flecks of gold in green. Antonio leaned in and kissed Lovino.

The moment was so fluid, right up to the kiss. So natural. And then their lips met. Lovino was too shocked to react. He just sat there, numb. It was so chaste, so quick, and Antonio pulled back almost instantly, eyes wide in horror. "I'm sorry," he whispered. He backed away, hands out in defence. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I—I didn't—Maybe it was the alcohol—" neither of them had had a sip to drink.

Lovino pulled him closer and kissed him back.

This was different.

Fierce. Demanding. More, more, more. Because chastity wasn't enough. Because he needed Antonio and Antonio needed him and their hands went all over and somewhere something fell over and shattered—maybe it was a lamp—and there were bed sheets and the softness of pillows and the hardness of Antonio's body over him and outside there were fireworks and for this moment, there was no war, no hate, no dreams, no distractions. There was only the heat of skin on skin and the desperation that came with love.

* * *

Part Six: War

* * *

For the next month, Lovino and Antonio never met each other at work. But in the evenings—late, late in the evenings—they'd take walks through Central Park before going to either one of their homes and staying the night over. They watched their movies the same way, pretending not to know. If Antonio stayed over at Lovino's, he knew he had to go there after everyone was asleep and leave before anyone woke up. When Lovino visited Antonio's, he had to follow the same rules. No-one could know. Absolutely no-one.

But Antonio had never, ever been this  _happy_ before. It wasn't distracted, fickle joy that came with excitement or good news. This was more lasting. This was a state of mind. Everything looked wonderful to Antonio. The world which had so lost its beauty was starting to look a little fresher, a little more alive.

He wrote another letter to Francis, just so he could shout it out into the void. Maybe somehow Francis would know. He changed the name to 'Lovinara', in case his letters were being read by someone in the government. But Francis would figure it out. He'd always been perceptive that way.

Lovino would always make pasta for the two of them. He'd talk about things that he'd apparently never told anyone before. Anecdotes from his days in Italy, from Grandpa Romulus's famous tiramisu to Feli's artistic abilities. When Lovino spoke about them, it was like his whole body lifted upwards. There was something so magical about that moment. Usually, Lovino looked sort of bogged down, weary, like he was always carrying something heavy on his back. But when he spoke about Italy, it was with feather-like lightness and grace, golden eyes wide as his hands flew about, dreaming up a scene with his words and blowing life into the characters of his past like it was an elaborate painting.

They read  _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ together. Antonio always needed help with the big words. Even if it wasn't a very large book, they got through it very slowly. But there was nothing that made him happier than Lovino helping him divide everything into easy syllables he could pronounce. Lovino made him a suit one day. For no particular reason. It made Antonio look rather dashing.

(Maybe that was the reason.)

In turn, Antonio would share war stories. This especially happened when he would wake up in the middle of the night, gasping and covered in sweat. Lovino would roll over, barely awake, and ask, "Nightmare?"

"They're always there," Antonio would reply quietly, shaking as he sat up. "Almost every single night."

Lovino would hold him. "They eventually go away. They go away when you give up on the memories."

"How do I do that?"

"You let them go."

"What does that mean?"

"What was your dream about?"

The stories would always involve violence and pain, but occasionally Antonio would notice something else. Friendship, honour, courage. Those stories in which Francis would blindly risk his life for three other people, Antonio had always seen them as horrifying, particularly that point where Francis almost gets shot. But now Antonio could see the bravery, the selflessness, and he would admire Francis even more.

Stories of pain would eventually mould into those of humour. Antonio would recount lots of funny things he remembered, from someone's snide comment to the occasional prank.

What Antonio loved most of all was the thrilling awkwardness between them. How before they kissed, Lovino would always pause. When their lips met, Lovino would always hold back. Antonio would have to coax him into it, encourage him to be as open as he could. Just before they had sex, Antonio would always nervously titter about whether it was good or if Lovino would like to try something else. When their hands brushed, both of them would turn very red and look away, and for a few minutes their sentences would come out as stammers. It just made him so wondrously happy how these small, ordinary moments were so incredibly special.

When he walked down the streets, New York still felt strange and foreign. Maybe it would always feel that way. But everything felt just a little bit more familiar with Lovino.

* * *

Antonio wasn't the type to overhear other people's conversations. But as he waited for Lovino on a park bench, trying to decipher the newspaper, a pair of voices floated over. Feminine voices. He recognised them. Lovino was going to meet him here in a bit, but these women were familiar…Oh. Right. Amelia and Madeline. Amelia was talking. They walked slowly, mostly because Madeline seemed…under the weather?

No, she seemed upset. Amelia seemed to be making her upset.

"Arthur said he'd meet us here, by that tree." Amelia pointed to a tree not too far away from Antonio, before saying, "Anyway, I had this idea. You could wear mother's suffragette ribbon over your wedding gown. It would show that even though you're getting married, you're still your own woman. I think it would make a strong statement."

Antonio lifted the paper higher, covering his face. He heard Madeline say, "I really, really don't want to do that." Her voice was soft, sad. "I don't even want to talk about this."

Amelia sighed loudly. "Maddie…"

There was a silence and then suddenly, explosively, Madeline almost shouted, "Daddy's being so  _hateful_."

"Madeline!"

"He is! Why can't I marry Gilbert? Huh? Why can't I?"

"You know why."

" _Why_?"

"Because," and Amelia lowered her voice, "He's  _German_. Daddy doesn't care about his albinism, you know that. But you can't marry a German, Maddie."

"Why? How does that make us any better than Hitler? Because we're hating someone for what they can't control. What they are born into!"

"Madeline, we mustn't talk about this over here."

"Why not?"

"It's not proper for us to—"

"Stop being such a hypocrite, Amelia. You're the one always going on about women's rights. Well, I'm a woman and I want to talk about this in a public place,  _so I will._ "

Antonio's fingers had tightened over the newspaper.

"Madeline, look, I liked Gilbert. I thought he was funny and sweet, and he seemed like a good person—"

"He is!"

"But you can't, you just can't. This lawyer you're going to marry, daddy likes him, he's a patriot and he's wealthy—"

"So then why doesn't father marry him?"

" _Madeline_ , stop it. Now. I can't even believe you just said that."

Antonio's eyes could have burned holes into the newspaper. Poor Gilbert. Poor, poor Gilbert.

"I don't want to marry some lawyer from Boston. Why aren't  _I_ allowed to marry the man I love? That's what  _you_ did."

"Well, Arthur's English. That's completely different."

"It's all the same!"

"Gilbert is German, it's not the same. Do you honestly want to be married to a Nazi?" Amelia's voice was hushed and fierce.

"He. Is. Not. A. Nazi!"

"Don't be silly, Madel—oh, Arthur, darling."

A third voice joined them now, decidedly English. Antonio ventured a peek through the newspaper. They were all under the three now. Arthur looked like he'd just come from work, with a posh suit and an expensive, important-looking briefcase. He was perhaps attractive. Antonio couldn't tell from this distance, but he too had green eyes, but rather busy eyebrows. Arthur pecked Amelia on the lips lightly before shaking hands with Madeline.

"Here, let me," he said politely as he took Amelia's bags from her. He offered to do the same for Madeline, but she just shook her head, crossed her arms and looked away.

"She's just in a sour mood," Amelia muttered coldly.

"I think I'm just going to go home," Madeline snapped. "Good day to you, Arthur." And then she'd turned on her heels, stomping off. Antonio watched Amelia groan.

"Maddie, don't be like that. Wait! Let Arthur drop you in the car!"

Amelia chased after Madeline, with Arthur walking briskly behind them. Antonio watched them go until they'd turned round the corner and out of sight. He finally lowered the newspaper. He'd not seen Gilbert in months, but things could not be going well for him.

It was a good fifteen minutes later that Lovino came, complaining about annoying customers constantly delaying him.

"Hey Lovi, you know Gilbert, don't you?"

Lovino's face became instantly guarded. "Yes," he said cautiously. "Why?"

"I think we should talk to him."

"Why? What happened?"

So Antonio told him.

It took a long, quiet moment from Lovino's side, and then he finally said, "I might know where he could be."

* * *

It was easy to spot Gilbert. He was the only one in the bar with his nose in a book. He was at a table at the very corner of the room with an untouched beer. From the way he was holding it, Lovino could read the book's title.  _The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money_ by John Maynard Keynes.

Keynes, Keynes…was he that famous economist?

Lovino charged ahead, Antonio following close behind. When they approached the table, Gilbert looked up. His red eyes were carefully blank. "Oh, hello, you two," he said calmly. "Please, sit. Don't mind me, I'm reading."

Lovino caught Antonio glancing at him, before Antonio quietly asked, "What is that book about? It's got a lot of big words."

"It's about a theory," Gilbert said in the same deadpan tone, not looking up. "An economic theory. It challenges classical economic thinking by introducing concepts such as the consumption function, the multiplier, marginal efficiency of capital, you know…"

"Speak English," Lovino muttered.

"It's a revolutionary book for economics." Gilbert turned a page. "Fascinating, this."

"I'm going to get some beers." Lovino pushed his chair back and looked questioningly at Antonio.

"It's a bit early, isn't it?" Antonio asked.

"Once in a while, it's all right."

When Lovino returned, he could tell nothing much had happened. Gilbert was still reading and Antonio had zoned out, staring into space as his head bobbed from side to side. Lovino pushed a beer mug to Antonio before taking a generous sip of the stuff himself.

"We heard about Madeline," Lovino said after a moment. "Are you all right?"

"Oh? Fine." Gilbert turned another page. "You know, this book explains why the Lend-Lease Act will be good for the American economy. Very interesting."

Lovino took another sip of the beer. "Her dad doesn't want you to marry her because you're German."

Gilbert froze for a split second, and then he abruptly shut the book with a loud thud. His eyes had become fierce; ruby anger that had no outlet. "No, he doesn't want me to marry her because of something else." He paused, then said, "Two words.  _Lend. Lease._ "

"What?"

"Oh!" Antonio cried, eyes widening. " _Si, si,_ I know how that could be a problem." He nodded his head vigorously before his lips turned downwards and he placed Gilbert under a very sympathetic frown.  
"I'm sorry. That must be terrible."

"What the fuck are you two on about?"

Both of them looked at Lovino with identically surprised wide eyes. "You haven't heard of the Lend-Lease Act? Seriously?" Gilbert asked.

"I know what it is! Basically, Roosevelt is going to provide money and ammunition to Britain and the other Allied countries."

" _Si_ , well," Antonio ventured, giving Lovino an awkward, uncomfortable smile, "That act is basically an informal declaration of war, Lovino. America isn't  _neutral_ anymore, you see? It's picked a side. The Allied side. And its natural enemy would then be…well, Hitler."

Oh.

Oh, wait.

That was why Madeline's father had opposed.

"Her dad works for the government," Gilbert muttered simply. "He's not going to let his younger daughter marry a German because thanks to the Lend-Lease Act, we're officially—well, unofficially, but it's only a matter of time now—enemies of the American state. Hitler was never popular here, but now just you wait and watch. This is nothing. It's only going to get worse."

Gilbert lifted his beer glass to his lips and polished it off in five large gulps. He slammed the mug down on the table, eyes hard and unemotional. "I love America. And I'll prove her father wrong. I'm no Nazi. When the time comes, I'll fight for America. And I'll fight for Madeline. She's getting married to someone else, but I'll still fight for her. I'll prove to all of them that just because I'm German by birth,  _I'm not a Nazi_." He opened his wallet, dumped a few cents on the table and walked out, his book under an arm.

His exit was followed by a long silence.

Antonio sighed. "There's a war coming."

"You read too many newspapers."

"No, trust me, there's a war coming."

"So what?"

"Would you enlist?"

Lovino raised an eyebrow. What a stupid question. "Don't I have anything better to do with my life?" He finished his beer with the same speed and finality that Gilbert had. "Want another one?"

Antonio's beer was still more or less untouched, so he shook his head, reaching a hand out to touch the cold glass. He was lost in thought again.

"I want another one," Lovino said more to himself than to Antonio as he stood and walked off.

* * *

Lovino didn't tell Antonio about that Wednesday morning. He didn't see the point. Antonio would just go berserk and hurt himself in the process. But Alonso walked into  _Vargas Tailor_ with another name and another person to threaten, and Lovino swallowed his conscience and did it without protest.

Over the course of that August, Alonso came five more times. Lots of people seemed to owe Donatello money. But they paid back. At least, Lovino wasn't dragged out for another session with the baseball bats. But it didn't seem to escape Antonio's eyes how Lovino spent an inordinate amount of time in church, or just spacing out, or not sleeping.

They'd lie in bed together for hours, Lovino pretending to be asleep. But really, he'd just replay everyone's horrified, scared faces. He'd replay the person he became during those moments. He hated that he had this side to him. This threatening, intimidating side. Was it an act? Or was he really capable of cruelty? Lovino had never been able to answer that question.

One morning before dawn, just as Antonio was stepping out of Lovino's apartment, he stopped at the doorway, put a hand on Lovino's shoulder and confronted him. "What's going on with you, Lovi? I'm worried."

"Nothing's going on."

"It's them, isn't it?" Antonio's voice dropped to a whisper. "What are they making you do?"

"You're going to get late for work."

"Lovi, can't you tell me?"

"The neighbours will wake up and see you. Just  _go_. Quickly."

Antonio stepped back into the apartment and closed the door behind him. He crossed his arms, regarding Lovino with cool, detached eyes. Reasoning with  _this_ Antonio was near impossible. He was firm and determined and quite possibly even dangerous. "What are they making you do?" and Antonio's voice had the steel-like quality of a shaving razor.

Lovino sighed loudly, running a hand through his hair. "Just the same shit. Telling people they need to pay up."

"Threatening them."

Lovino winced at his tone. "Yeah."

Antonio's weight shifted. He approached Lovino, pulling him into a hug. They stood like that for a while. It was safe like this. With Antonio holding him, Lovino felt safe. He could pretend he wasn't permanently trapped by the mafia. He could pretend that he was brave and free and strong. Like Antonio was.

"Lovi," Antonio whispered gently, "You can't just take this lying down. You have to fight back."

"You're a foreigner and you don't know the mafia, Antonio."

"They're just bullies." Lovino found himself pushed back, with Antonio's hands on his shoulders. Green eyes met gold. "We live in an age of bullies. But we can't just accept their cruelty, can we? That's why we're even in another Great War. Because Hitler and Mussolini and Tojo are  _wrong_ and awful, and they need to be stopped."

Lovino blinked. "You think too highly of me. I'm not that brave. I don't want to get shot and killed for some higher purpose. This is how people like me live. There are bullies and we just get on with it. Bullies will always exist."

"That's the wrong attitude to take, Lovino."

"Antonio, that's how people live in the real world. We're not fortunate enough to have your courage and fighting ability, we're not smart enough to understand your ideologies. This is how real people live. We get on with life."

Antonio had to understand this. They'd never be alike, this way. Antonio was much more complicated. He lived in another universe, where these beliefs and these philosophies had actual impact. But Lovino's life was very different, it had always been. Never once had he been allowed to choose his own fate. The bullies, as Antonio called them, were always there. From poverty, to loss, to the mafia. This was how it was. This was how it would always be.

"Don't you have an immediate dream?" Antonio suddenly asked.

Immediate dreams. It had been so long since anyone had spoken about that.

"Don't you want to be free from their control?"

_Of course I do._

_That's what I've always wanted._

_That's my immediate dream._

"Because the only way you're going to get it is if you fight for it, Lovino."

Lovino pressed the bridge of his nose. He couldn't have this conversation. He couldn't do it right now.

"You should go before the neighbours wake up."

So Antonio gaped silently at him for a few seconds.

Then he turned and left.

* * *

August became September. Things didn't change much. Lovino threatened people on and off, spent long hours at church, and stopped looking at his reflection in the mirror. Antonio didn't bring up the conversation from those many days ago.

But their relationship still went on. They did the same things. Hiding, movies, sex, Central Park, reading practice. It was all the same. But it was a nice routine. Lovino wasn't one to believe in wild romance. This was real. It was real because in some ways it was very mundane, but little things still filled him up with—well, not wonder, but appreciation—and he found himself loving Antonio more and more.

It was nice for someone to be a part of his life. That seldom ever happened. None of his relationships had ever lasted this long. Lovino could never understand why; he'd never cared to. But Antonio sent feeling all over his body. The slight tingles when they touched, the swooping sensation when they kissed, the way he could hear his heart in his head when Antonio smiled at him…

And yet, Lovino was starting to notice a slight change in Antonio. He wasn't sure if Antonio himself was aware of it, but to Lovino's eyes, he was becoming more...well, anxious. His reading had picked up, mostly because he spent every free moment of his time scanning newspapers and magazines. He'd have nightmares more often and sometimes completely zone out.

Lovino knew he was thinking about the war.

Why was Europe always at war? Didn't those stupid countries have anything better to do? Like—who knows— _paint_?

This was why Lovino never paid attention to the news if he could help it. He didn't need the stress. It wasn't like he could do anything about some catastrophe happening miles away, so why obsess over it?

Antonio woke up in cold sweat again, and this time, Lovino couldn't coax him to go back to sleep. He put on a pair of pants and wandered around his tiny apartment, making himself a coffee and staring out of the window.

Lovino sighed, pushing off the covers. He stumbled around in the darkness for his briefs, and then sat down beside Antonio. "What happened?"

"Hmm?" Antonio said tiredly. He really hadn't been sleeping these days. "Nothing. Dreams again."

"What was it about this time?"

"I can't really say. It was confusing. But it was about the future. Or more like, the past and the future blended into one. It was like the civil war, only on a much larger scale. More of the same death and pain and loss. I…" Antonio's voice trailed away, "…I didn't like it."

Lovino found himself leaning into Antonio's chest, listening to the other man's heart beat. This sound was so important to him. It was amazing how these simple things held so much value to Lovino. He'd never thought it possible of him.

"Do you think the nightmares will ever stop?" Antonio asked quietly.

"You've been in a  _war_ , Antonio. All soldiers get nightmares."

"That didn't answer the question."

"How do I know? I'm no expert on these things." Lovino sat up, turned slightly and placed one hand on Antonio's cheek. "But for what it's worth, I'll always be there to hold you when they get too bad." And Lovino meant it. He meant every word of it.

Antonio smiled, soft and exhausted.

"I don't think you should read the newspapers anymore."

"But I—"

"It just makes you worry. There's no point sitting around waiting for something bad to happen."

"But the war—"

"If America's going to enter it, America's going to enter it. Getting obsessed over bad news isn't going to change a single fucking thing."

Antonio bit his bottom lip. "I don't know if I can do that, Lovino. The news, I—I just  _must_ know—"

Lovino pulled him into a kiss, if only to shut him up. Both of them were so sleepy. This wasn't an argument worth having right now.

It didn't take long for Antonio to drop off to sleep, but Lovino found it a lot harder. What if America did join the war? He turned on his side to watch Antonio breathe.

"Would you enlist?" he asked—whispered—hoping that Antonio wasn't awake. He just sighed in his sleep. The question, however, played on Lovino's mind, the silent death-wish that it was.

_Would you enlist?_

_No._

* * *

"You really need to get yourself a pair of gloves."

Central Park was white. Antonio just laughed as he stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. Lovino kept a respectable distance. It was still broad daylight; there were too many people around. "I can't believe it's already December. What do you usually do on Christmas, Lovino?"

"Did you hear me? You'll get frostbite, you idiot."

Antonio grinned. "Don't worry, I'm fine. So what do you do on Christmas?"

"Nothing, that's what. I've never really cared."

Antonio raised an eyebrow. "But you're so pious."

"So I go to church! But nothing apart from that. Why don't you come with me this year?"

It took a lot of effort to keep the grimace away, but Lovino caught the look on Antonio's face and narrowed his eyes. "What?" Lovino asked, "You don't want to come?"

" _Must_  we go to church? Aren't there more interesting things to do?"

"Shut the hell up, you pagan. I don't care what you think,  _I'm_ going."

"Pagan," Antonio repeated and giggled.

"You're in a good mood."

"Hmm? You noticed?"

"Yeah."

Antonio turned and grinned again. "I learnt something amazing last night."

Lovino raised an eyebrow. Antonio loved that expression on him. It was so typical. Lovino's cynicism and amusement and badly hidden curiosity. Antonio could stare at his face all day. He was constantly comparing things to Lovino's eyes.  _Golden, but not as golden as Lovino's eyes in the sunlight. Complex, but not as complex as Lovino's stare. Amorous, but not as amorous as Lovino's fluttering lashes when he moans._ Lovino, Lovino, Lovi, Lovi, perfect, beautiful Lovino.

"What? Did you finally learn to tie your laces?" Lovino drawled.

"I learnt that I'm in love with you."

Whatever retort Lovino had been planning, that response completely stole it from him. He openly gaped at Antonio, his face flushing rapidly, before, in an attempt to regain composure, he scoffed, rolled his eyes, and muttered, "Took you long enough. I've known I loved you for ages. Bastard."

It was Antonio's turn to blush. "W-what? You never told me!"

Lovino just shrugged. "Er…surprise?" But he was still very red, and averted his gaze. "Stop staring at me like that."

"I could kiss you right now." Antonio's voice was hushed and breathy.

"Yeah, but don't." Lovino glanced around. There were businessmen and children making snowmen and a man and a woman walking hand-in-hand. Antonio heard him sigh softly before his eyes slid back to him. "Let's go get you a pair of gloves. Come on."

Antonio couldn't let a simple lack of a kiss ruin his mood right now. He beamed. "Okay!"

* * *

Lovino thought he was going to pass out when Antonio was unlocking the door to his apartment at half past midnight and Antonio's neighbour found them in the corridor.

They weren't doing anything inappropriate. Antonio was merely unlocking the door. But he froze and his hand left the keys in the keyhole. He, Lovino, and the neighbour—a Japanese man—stared at each other for one blank moment.

Then the neighbour merely walked over to his own apartment, took out his keys, and without turning around, said, "Mr. Carriedo, may I ask a favour?"

Antonio cleared his throat with a soft cough. "Yes, Mr. Honda? By the way, please say hello to my brother, Henrique. Henrique, this is Mr. Kiku Honda." He nudged Lovino as Mr. Honda turned.

"Hello, Mr. Henrique," Mr. Honda nodded politely at him before extending a hand to shake.

Lovino took it, knowing full well that his skin was cold with panic and he didn't trust himself to speak above a squeak. He nodded right back before stuffing his hands in his pocket and looking away.

"You wanted a favour, Mr. Honda?" Antonio prompted, his voice full of cheer and friendliness. Good god, how did Antonio always sound like that?

"Yes, would you mind getting me a loaf of brown bread from your bakery tomorrow evening? I'll pay you, of course. I'm almost running out and since I'll be at work, I won't have any time to buy some."

"Oh, no problem! I'll definitely get it for you!"

"Thank you." Mr. Honda swung his apartment door open. "Well, good night, Mr. Antonio and Mr. Henrique."

A few quiet seconds, and then Lovino whispered, "He's not first generation, is he? He had a bit of an accent."

"His family lives in California," Antonio explained simply before unlocking the door to his apartment. "He just works here."

* * *

Lovino woke up to an empty bed.

He took his time getting up, yawning and stretching. The sun was already out, but for once, Lovino didn't care. He loved a man. So what? The world could just go and fuck themselves if they had a problem with it. If the neighbours were awake and saw him leave of the apartment, good for them. They'd seen a man stepping out from behind a door. They'd survive.

Lovino wore the pair of pants he'd tossed across the room the night before, before ambling to the bathroom to freshen up. Where was Antonio? The house was oddly quiet. If Antonio woke up early, Lovino could usually here the sounds of cooking and the smell of coffee. Today, there was nothing.

"Antonio?" he asked as he stepped out of the bedroom.

The sight that met his eyes made him start and pause.

Antonio stood by the threshold of the apartment door. He hadn't even shut it. He was just standing there, stock still, his head bent down to the newspaper in his hands. He was like a statue. Lovino couldn't even spot the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

"Antonio?" he asked again, softer. He was almost scared to approach. He'd never seen him like this.

"Fifteen hundred dead in Hawaii." Antonio's voice was still, quiet. Soft, but somehow exceedingly clear. "Congress votes war." He hadn't even looked up from the paper, but now he raised his head, slowly, as though he were in a trance. "Lovino," he said dreamily, looking straight ahead into the corridor, "War's here."

Lovino's stomach flipped.

"Close the door," he hissed.

"Pearl Harbour."

Antonio was not himself right now.

"Close the door."

"That's such a pretty name. Pearl. Harbour."

"Antonio! Close the fucking door!"

He finally turned, blinking as his eyes fell on Lovino. "Did you say something?" he asked softly, almost confused.

"Close. The. Door."

The dull thud of the door closing. Lovino crossed the length of the room, snatching the paper from Antonio's hands.

_New York World-Telegram._

_New York, Monday, December 8, 1941._

_1500 Dead in Hawaii_

_Congress Votes War_

Lovino looked back up into his green eyes, and with a jolt of horror realised that Antonio was going to sign his death warrant.

* * *

"We're at war with the Japs, did ya hear?"

Lovino looked up, exhausted. Alonso was there again. He really couldn't deal with this right now. Antonio had stumbled off to work in complete silence, although his body language had seemed so controlled, filled with such barely-restrained rage. There was something inside him, Lovino knew, that was determined to fight. With Antonio, it didn't even take a thought process. If his beliefs felt threatened, he went to war. Simple as that.

Lovino knew he was going to spend a lot of time trying to calm Antonio down. He needed the man to see reason. If Antonio went to fight, he wasn't coming back. Nobody that fought ever did.

And Lovino loved Antonio.

He  _loved_ Antonio.

He needed Antonio to stay alive.

"What do you want?" Lovino croaked, rubbing his temples.

"You sick?" Alonso approached him with his notebook. "Get your shit together, Vargas, we've got another one."

"You handle it."

Where the hell had that come from?

Lovino's head jerked up. Alonso was looking blankly back at him. Had he really just snapped at Alonso?

"Anyway," Alonso tore a page from his notepad and placed it on the counter. "Tell this one if he doesn't pay the money by the end of the week, he's done for. He's already asked for an extension. Can you believe it?"

Lovino sighed as he lifted the paper.

He felt trapped.

And for one split second, Lovino wanted to die.

* * *

_Knock_

_Knock_

_Knock_

The door opened just a sliver and a lone black eye stared quietly back at Antonio. "Er…Mr. Honda? I got that bread for you, just like you asked." There was a sense of lifelessness in the air. Antonio was drained.

"Oh," Mr. Honda exclaimed simply, opening the door a little bit wider. He looked awful. Pale, tired. He looked small and thin, hugging himself. Mr. Honda regarded Antonio warily, then at the loaf of bread in Antonio's hand. They said nothing for a moment, just staring at each other in silent defeat.

"Are you all right?" Antonio felt terrible. At work, Mr. Barney had been ranting on and on about the 'Japs' and how untrustworthy they were and how they were taking over white business. It was the first time Antonio had ever been angry with Mr. Barney, but it was such impotent rage. He didn't know how to express himself. He didn't know what to feel anymore.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you." Mr. Honda extended an arm and Antonio handed him the bread. "How much do I owe you?"

"No, it's all right—"

Mr. Honda reached into his pocket and took out three dollars. Antonio's eyes widened. "That's _way_ too much. You're overpaying. Really, you don't need to do this."

"Keep it," Mr. Honda muttered simply, placing the cash in Antonio's hand. "As a tip."

"But—"

"Please," he whispered. "Just take it."

Antonio could not figure out if there was any symbolism to this moment. He just swallowed and nodded, staring into Mr. Honda's drawn face. He pocketed the money and said, "Thank you."

But they still looked at each other, unsure of what to say, what to do. Antonio could bear it.

"We're all with you, Mr. Honda," Antonio insisted, hoping he sounded just as earnest as he felt. "At least, I'm with you." Mr. Honda must have received a lot of flak from work today. He couldn't bear to imagine it. To be hated for what he was…for something that wasn't his fault…

"Hate," Antonio went on, not knowing what he was saying but convinced he was doing the right thing, "Hate's blind. If we knew the truth about…about other people…you know? If we knew the truth about those we consider different, we'd realise that there are no differences after all. Not really. I don't care what they say, Mr. Honda. And neither should you."

Mr. Honda smiled softly and shook his head. "I hate to be blunt, Mr. Carriedo…Antonio…but you and I are of different colours."

"But that doesn't matter."

"Not to you. Not to me. But it does to everyone else." Mr. Honda's laugh was sarcastic and masked with pain. "Anyway, it's irrelevant. You won't be seeing any more of me after this week."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"The landlord has served me an eviction notice."

"What? No! That's ridiculous! We must talk to—"

"I wish the world was made of idealists like you."

Mr. Honda's smile as he closed the door would haunt Antonio for the rest of his life.

…

In that moment, Antonio knew he was going to enlist.

* * *

They ate dinner in silence. Pasta again. It was roaring silence. Lovino knew the kind. The quiet that was filled with the sound of screaming, of words that were dying to break free, escape. Of sentences and emotions that could burn through human skin and bite into bone, thoughts so dangerous that they were always, always better left unsaid.

Antonio looked like he'd been crying. He didn't talk about it, and Lovino didn't ask.

They went to bed. Just bed, without the sex. Antonio lay flat and stared at the ceiling. Lovino was on his side, turned away from the other man.

Lovino let his mind wander. And his thoughts went back to Italy. There was a memory, frozen in time, of Feliciano as a baby. Grandpa and Mama and Papa were all there, and Lovino was staring into the crib with wide, fascinated eyes, wondering how a creature with lungs so small could cry quite so much.

He allowed the memory to hold him. His family was all there. He was with them again.

"I'm signing up for war." Antonio's voice was far away.

Lovino watched cracks appear on the memory, like famine-worn earth rip open, starved of water. He watched the memory fade away on a boat to Ellis Island. He tried to reach out for it, to get it to come back, to hold him once again, but he couldn't even see it anymore. He was in New York, eleven years old, hungry, terrified and alone.

"Lovi? Are you awake?"

_No._

"Lovino?" Antonio shifted his weight to sit up.

_How can you be so fucking selfish?_

"Hey, did you hear me?" A hand on his shoulder.

_You bastard._

"How dare you," Lovino said suddenly, loudly. He sat up and pushed off the covers, swinging his legs over the bed, standing up. He stared at Antonio, wide-eyed, heart-hammering,  _furious._

"What?" Antonio asked, blinking in confusion.

"How can you just say that? Without consulting me? Don't I have a say in this?"

Antonio's frown was so genuinely puzzled, Lovino wanted to reach out and shake him.

"You think I'm going to just let you throw your life away?"

"Lovi, lots of people are going to enlist!"

"So what? Why do  _you_  have to?" Lovino shouted.

Antonio stared. And then he stood up to full height. Lovino could see his powerful muscles, his set jaw, his dead, firm eyes. "Because it's the right thing to do."

Lovino almost laughed. "You and your fucking ideology. Your  _principles_. Antonio, the Allies are just as bad as the Axis when they're on the battlefield! They're all monsters fighting to kill, and it doesn't matter where they come from—all of them are evil! All of them! You think your fucking principles make you so righteous, but they don't. They just make you naïve!"

"You're just a quitter," Antonio retorted calmly. He was staring right at Lovino but his gaze didn't quite reach. There was no connection there. "All you ever do is give up. You give up without even trying, and you justify that with your cynicism. Aren't some things worth fighting for?"

"How dare you!"

"It's a fact. You hate your mafia bullies, but do you do a thing about them? Do you even try?"

"Antonio, I swear to god, don't bring that up right now."

"Why not?" Now, finally, Antonio had lost his temper. "You're just lying down and letting them attack you! You do that with them and you're doing that now! You don't want to defend the place that you live in? Don't you care?"

"America's going to win! It always wins! It doesn't matter what I do! Besides, I don't like to fight! I hate violence!"

They were shouting, shouting because it was the only way to let the other  _see_. To make the other  _hear._

"You're just scared!"

"Shut the fuck up, Antonio! You don't know a thing about my life!"

"I'm probably the only person alive who knows as much about you as I do!"

"That is not true! And you can't convince me to join the war!"

"I don't want to do that!" Antonio finally shouted and then stopped. In an echoing silence, he murmured, "I don't want you to join. I'd be terrified for you."

"Don't you see?" Lovino asked, craving to kiss Antonio but holding back. "That's why I don't want you to go."

Antonio didn't reply, except for leaning against the wall and burying his head in his hands. "I can't abandon my principles. I won't. My home is in danger."

"Your home? You've never felt at home here."

Antonio looked at him through parted fingers. "That's why I must fight for it, Lovi. To feel at home when I return."

"Antonio, come on. Are you hearing yourself?"

"We have to fight a battle or two now and then," he said simply, dropping his hands and shrugging. "You, me, all of us." He picked up his pillow from the bed. "I'm sleeping on the couch."

"Antonio…"

"You want me to."

"That's not true."

"It is. I can see it in your eyes." Just as he stepped out of the room, he added, "I'm enlisting tomorrow."

"I won't let you go alone," Lovino cried desperately.

"Then you'll have to enlist too." He turned and smiled gently. "I'll wait for you at the recruitment office."

_You selfish bastard._

"You can't make me fight," Lovino snarled. "I won't come."

"Then don't," Antonio snapped coldly before leaving the room and slamming the bedroom door shut.

* * *

Antonio was gone when Lovino woke up.

Last night was a bad dream. It had to have been. Would Antonio really join the army? Lovino glanced at his watch. The recruitment office wouldn't have opened yet. Surely Antonio wasn't going to just…just go to war. He wouldn't do that. He'd get killed in a heartbeat.

Lovino wasn't really in the mood to work at all. It was all he could do to not just burst into tears. It wasn't like he didn't want to fight for himself. He was just so afraid. Didn't Antonio ever feel that fear? He was, after all, as human as Lovino was.

"Everything all right, dear?"

The old lady in his shop had known him for years, and had never seen him look this vulnerable. He put on a smile, just for her. "Yes, I'm all right. Thank you for asking. Wait a moment, I'll go get your dresses."

What if Antonio did die? Just the thought was too much. He needed Antonio. He loved him. He wanted nothing more than to protect Antonio from the hell that would come his way. He didn't have any grand principles and beliefs. He couldn't grasp the idea of fighting and dying for an abstract concept. What was the point of that?

But Lovino had been loved before. He had known the love of his family. He had known Antonio's love. He can comprehend fighting to protect that. This was real. This was what people craved. Beyond a point, did ideology even matter? Perhaps it did for leaders and lawmakers. Perhaps it did for economists and the rich. But for people like Lovino? The absolute layman?

Maybe Antonio did have a point, and democracy was good. And true, Lovino wouldn't want to live in Mussolini's Italy or Hitler's Germany, or even Stalin's Russia. But he could never throw his life away for some grand purpose.

He was a small man. His life was small, insignificant. He could only understand the insignificant. The irrelevant. The things that governments brushed aside when they declared war. Like family and love and friendship.

_God, can you hear me? Antonio doesn't believe in Your love. But I do. He questions if you are benevolent, he questions if you really are the Saviour. He's seen so much pain. But so have I. Maybe my suffering is different. And it's true, I believe everything eventually fails, dissipates, collapses._

_But…why?_

_Why have You made us the way we are? Why have You given us the power to love so fiercely and dream so fearlessly? And why then, have you given us the ability to kill? What's the point of it all? Why do we contradict ourselves? Why do we hurt someone and yet fear the day the people we love get hurt?_

_It's unfair._

_It makes cowards and heroes of us all. And I don't know who I am. I don't know what I should be. Antonio is a hero. But what about me? Could I, too, be like Antonio? Could I be brave? And would that courage help me protect Antonio? To die for him, to kill for him?_

_We're so contradictory. I'll never understand human beings. Sometimes, I doubt You will either._

(Antonio said he'd wait at the recruitment office. Despite their argument last night, would he still be waiting?)

Lovino handed the old lady her dresses and took her money.

(Would he still be waiting?)

(Yes.)

* * *

Salvatore's figure blocked the door. He wore a huge welcoming grin, and Lovino just stopped and stared, aghast. No, no, no. He couldn't. He wouldn't. There was no way he could beat up another person. Or even threaten them. Antonio was waiting for him. He wouldn't let Antonio go to war all alone. They had to protect each other. They loved each other.

"Where are you off to, Vargas?" Salvatore asked, coolly smirking.

"I'm enlisting." He tried to push past Salvatore, but the man only had to shift his posture slightly to completely close the way.

"Enlist? Christ! Whatever for? It's not your fight."

"Yes, it is."

"Look at you. Thin as a toothpick. Those Japs and Nazis will pick you apart."

He had to get to Antonio. He'd wasted enough time already.

"Just move, will you?"

"No. You can enlist tomorrow. You've got another job."

No. No. No.

"I'm enlisting today." Lovino narrowed his eyes. "I'm enlisting now. So,  _per favore_ , get the  _fuck_ out my way."

Salvatore guffawed. "The lip on it! And what if I don't?"

Lovino pushed. He pushed Salvatore. Hard. It wasn't enough to make the man fall over, but Salvatore stumbled and had to take a step back. They stared at each other, neither backing down. Lovino had done it now. He'd done it. He'd attacked him. Why had he done that?

Because he had to.

Salvatore regained his composure. And then he moved.

Like lightning.

The fist.

Crushing into Lovino's eye.

There was pain, oh God, there was pain. Between kicks to the rib and bones breaking, a baseball bat and a rain of glass. Screams and violent shouting in Italian. Shrieks from people outside.

And an epiphany.

_They're not immediate dreams._

Pain took on something more universal. It wasn't sidelined, an unpleasant experience. It was like losing air, the way it controlled the mind, that complete focus on the way his body broke.

_Marrying the girl you love. Feeling at home. Being your own person. They're not immediate dreams._

_They're big dreams. They're futures._

The agony became something standard. Kick. Punch. Hit. Spit. Brutality that had no meaning. Lovino could see God's grand design. How violence made people feel so damn good, but how courage made the pain significant. Meaningful. Important. The duality. Cruel from one point of view, great from another.

And when Salvatore stopped, turned and moved to walk away, Lovino realised something else.

_They're big dreams. Futures. And they're worth fighting for._

He couldn't move but he forced himself to. Some part of his brain told him that his blood shouldn't have been all over the floor, that there shouldn't have been glass under his skin, his bones shouldn't have been in that odd angle, but he forced himself to stand, gasping, leaning against the wall, because he wasn't done yet. He wasn't done. He had to fight this right to the end.

"Salvatore," he rasped, and the man turned. He looked shocked. Shocked that his victim was still around. Was still breathing. Was still determined to stand. "You're just a big goddamn bully."

Lovino screamed as the bullet pierced him.

* * *

There was a long line, but it was moving quickly and Antonio was right up ahead. The man in front of Antonio lit a cigarette. Antonio watched the smoke curl and float into the air. His eyes followed it, transfixed. He didn't know why. Sometimes, people watched simple things for no reason at all. Because sometimes there was something about the moment.

And there was something about this moment. A familiarity of sorts.

The men lined up for war. The recruitment office looking plain but official. Propaganda posters all about.

Lovino wasn't here yet. Secretly, Antonio was glad. He didn't want Lovino to fight. He'd never forgive himself if anything happened to him. Antonio had waited for hours, and Lovino hadn't come yet. He hated the way they'd left things, though. But at least Lovi would be safe here in the city.

The line moved some more, and after only a few minutes, Antonio stepped inside the recruitment office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left! :D
> 
> Fun fact: the New York World-Telegram actually did publish that article mentioned in this fic. It was front-page news, Monday, 8th December, 1941. The headline mentioned in the chapter is historically accurate. This was exactly what they'd printed.
> 
> Fun fact number two: things were insanely cheap back then, but let's not forget that the average annual was only about $1,750. They were strange times...
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please comment :D


	3. When the Seasons Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way too much fun with that cliffhanger in the last chapter. xD
> 
> Well anyway, this is the final installment of this fic. Consider this chapter an epilogue. It's even much shorter, and all I'm doing is tying up loose ends.
> 
> Facts—
> 
> a) World War Two officially ended on September 2, 1945. I did some research about when soldiers started coming home, but I couldn't really find anything. So I'm just going with my gut.
> 
> b) Japanese Americans were sent to internment camps during the war.

October 1945

Part Seven: Leaves in the Wind

* * *

On the first night back, Antonio stumbled into the nearest church—it wasn't even Catholic—sat in a pew right in the center, and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. He needed to. He just had to. He didn't move to go home or anything. There was no home.

There. Was. No. Home.

Where would he stay? What was left of home? Antonio couldn't even remember the idea of it anymore. New York was quiet.

He pressed his head on the back of another bench.

New York was dead silent.

* * *

The war was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

And now history had swallowed it like a bitter pill.

All of this…this  _loss_  would one day be just another story. Christ, there was so much loss, there was so much pain, and there was so much  _goddamn noise._

* * *

The next morning, still homeless, he took whatever little he had—just one small bag—and walked. And walked. And walked. He had no idea where he was going. There was no direction. Was there ever any direction? People walked and marched and ran into war and there was no point to it all, good versus evil, right and wrong, no fucking point.

At mid-afternoon, he found himself at the edge of Little Italy. His steps became more cautious, more controlled, because there was one person there, one person who was neither noise nor silence, just sound, a pleasant sound, like the rustle of leaves in the wind.

Lovino.

Antonio almost broke down when he said the name out loud.

"Lovino."

He needed to see Lovino.

So he walked down the road familiar, where pockets of memories hid in the shadows. If only Antonio could reach out and touch them. If only they could pull him in and hold him forever. But he needed Lovino now. Lovino would have to bring those memories back, bring that  _feeling_ back, because Antonio could not do it.

He could not do it anymore.

And there, nestled between the mechanic's and the grocery store was—what.

A bookstore. That wasn't right. Wasn't Lovino's shop right here? Antonio turned his head. Had he come to the wrong place? He went down one alley, then came back to the same spot. No. No. This was it. Why was there a bookstore?

Where was Lovino?

Where was Lovino?

God, where was Lovino?

_Why was there so much silence and so much noise at the same time?_

Antonio thought he was going to faint. He couldn't breathe. He wanted Lovino NOW. He wanted him like the nostalgia of his Spanish childhood and he wanted him like the forbidden love affair New York had offered and he just wanted simplicity.

That was all Antonio had left.

Broken, faded simplicity.

"Whoa, there, son." Someone—who?—directed him indoors, in where the warmth was, the smell of books and dim lighting, a chair, some water, a person speaking to him.

"You all right? You looked like you were going to faint!" the man asked when Antonio stared up at him, heart still crashing into his rib cage.

"I'm…fine," Antonio said slowly.

The bookstore was peaceful. Like the breath of a child in deep sleep. Antonio closed his eyes to it. Opened them again. The man was still there. Italian, old, unremarkable, as most people happened to be.

"There used to be a shop here…a tailor's shop… _Vargas Tailor_."

The man before him blinked. "You've been away a while, haven't you?"

"I just—the war—what happened?" Antonio exhaled softly, burying his head in his hands.

"The mafia is what happened."

_No._

Antonio's head shot up. "What?"

The man shook his head. "I don't know the details, son, I'm sorry. But the owner had a disagreement with the mafia. They attacked him. It was pretty bad."

No. Lovino could not be dead. No. No way. It wasn't possible. No.  _This was all Antonio's fault._ Lovino had to be alive. What was Antonio going to do without— _this was his fault—Lovino was dead because of—_

"Jesus, calm down! Do I need to call a doctor?" Antonio found old hands clamped around his cheeks, and someone speaking to him slowly, clearly. "It's all right. Just breathe. Don't panic like that. It's not good for you. Just breathe. That's right. Good." He let go slowly, regarding Antonio with pity and confusion. "Did you know Lovino Vargas?"

"Know him? I—" Antonio's heart skipped a beat and he had to stop talking. He was so anxious, so anxious, everything was so loud and bright and the was the war—the war was over—there was—there was—Lovino—

"He's not dead. Listen, just calm down. He's not dead."

Antonio stopped. Everything stopped. The noise, the chaos, all of it just fell down, limp.

_He's not dead._

Antonio hung onto those words, held them in his mouth and swallowed them, went over each syllable in his head, slowly, because each sound had meaning and the meaning was Lovino. Lovino. Lovino.

"Lovino Vargas. He's alive. Miracle, if you ask me. But he moved away. I can give you his address. He's still my tailor, you know?" the man smiled encouragingly at Antonio's return to reality. "Are you good? Yeah? Look, here, let me write down his address…"

* * *

Coloured leaves, like something out of a story book, drifted towards the quiet little street. It was so orderly. Lined with trees, boxlike red brick buildings and respectable establishments, prim and upright, as though cut from a painting.

Antonio found himself staring at the familiar grammatically awkward name. He saw black suits in the shop window and a sense of hushed warmth inside. From out here, Antonio couldn't see if anyone was inside. Not even a customer.

 _Vargas Tailor_. He stared at the name some more. His mind had just zoned out now. He was so tired of thinking, so tired of feeling.

"Daddy!"

Antonio turned sharply. The girl had a very high-pitched voice. She was only about four, with auburn hair and golden eye—like Lovino. Antonio stared openly, uncaring if it seemed rude. Could she—would Lovino—was it—

The girl's mother was a rather striking woman, with the bluest eyes and short blonde hair that curled at its ends. She stood across the street with her daughter, looking on exasperatedly as the little girl puffed out her cheeks and crossed her arms and yelled, "I. Want. Daddy."

"Daddy's working," her mother said simply, tiredly. She offered her hand. "Come on, Celestina. Let's go."

Antonio watched them cross the street, approaching him. This girl. She looked so much like him. Her hair was a little lighter, a little redder, but she had his eyes. They walked past Antonio without so much as a glance, completely unaware that he was internally screaming.

Lovino—would—would he?—just marry some woman—have children—there was no  _way_ —it was possible. Antonio had just abandoned Lovino. It was very possible. Everyone got lonely. Oh god, no. Antonio  _needed_ Lovino right now. He couldn't—just the  _thought_  of him having a wife—

He felt like he was going to faint again, so he took a few steady breaths. His nerves got so easily affected these days. He just had to stay calm. He was jumping to conclusions. He needed to sort this through, properly.

(What would he say to Lovino when they met?)

(Would things ever be like they used to?)

"Lovino!" the woman called out in an airy voice. Antonio's head snapped up, and he took a step closer towards the store. "Lovino, we're here. Celest—"

"Uncle Looooovi! Uncle Loooovi, how are youuuu?"

"Hush, Celestina!"

_Uncle Lovi? What in the world…?_

Antonio's heart stilled as he saw a figure appear from a back room. The man walked with a heavy limp and leaned on a stick. He looked older, tired, but with the same auburn hair and the same sharp golden eyes. He didn't notice Antonio, turning his attention to the little girl and her mother.

"Hello, Celestina," he said gently, with a small smile. It was so incredible. Antonio could remember Lovino's softness, but this was different. It wasn't shy, he wasn't ready to run from his own show of affection. This just seemed so much…happier.

"Hello, Uncle Lovi!" she sing-songed. "Mama told me that you're very busy and I mustn't bother you but we'll have fun, won't we? Won't we? I want to teach you a new dance I learnt at school!"

By this point, her mother basically looked defeated. "I'm sorry," she said in a quieter, more discreet tone. "You know just how much like her father she is…always excited…"

_What? What? What?_

"It's all right," Lovino said with a chuckle. "You know I love having her, Monika. You go on to your hair appointment. We'll be perfectly fine, won't we,  _vita mia_?"

" _Si_!" Celestina giggled ecstatically.

Antonio couldn't take this anymore. He had to know. He just…he just wanted…needed…he couldn't stand waiting a second longer. This was desperation like he'd never felt it before.

He stepped into the store.

Lovino still didn't catch on, only partially turning his head away from Celestina, saying, " _Si_ , what can I do for—" and then his eyes met Antonio's, and he just stopped.

Antonio watched his lips part, trying to express a sentiment he just couldn't quite voice. His eyes were wide, like he'd stepped into a dream, and Antonio watched him ball his fists.

"Lovino?" Monika asked, looking between him and Antonio.

"Can…" Lovino started, but his throat was dry, his words weren't sounding right, "Can you…take Celestina to the back room? Just…please."

"Lovino, is everything all right?" Monika asked firmly, taking hold of Celestina's hand.

"Please, just…I need a moment."

Her blue eyes darted towards Antonio in a look of protective warning before she quickly whisked Celestina behind the counter, ignoring the girl's questions. The door of the back room swung shut, and the silence that followed seemed to swallow them whole.

"You…look well," Antonio began slowly.

"Antonio?" Lovino asked, and now he looked scared. Antonio watched him draw into himself, come closer, as though defending his heart from assault. When he spoke, it was like each word had been forced out of a keyhole, as though he'd prevented himself from thinking like this, locked away his hope pretended it didn't exist. "You're…alive?"

Antonio smiled. It was the smile of the beaten. "Yes."

Lovino couldn't have said it better if he'd said, "Fuck them all." He just wordlessly walked out from behind the counter with his stick and his terrible limp, and they hugged and hugged and cried and cried, too afraid to let go.

* * *

It was on a bench on the street, and it was a slight struggle for Lovino to walk there. He waved off the help Antonio offered, insisting he'd done this before and he could handle it. They sat. They said nothing for a while. Too afraid to touch, too desperate to talk.

Finally, it was Antonio who broke the quiet. He had to know. He was still verging on madness, that need, that craving for conversation, that craving for  _Lovino._

"What happened?" Antonio croaked. "To you?"

Lovino's dry chuckle sounded like a cough. "Salvatore. From the mafia. He and I…well, I tried to fight him. He had a baseball bat and a gun."

"He  _shot_ at you?"

"He got me at the side of my stomach." Lovino's eyes were suddenly panicky with the fervour to convey, to explain. "I know you must have waited, Antonio. That day, outside the recruitment office. It used to keep me up at night, the thought of you waiting for hours and hours…I was going to come. I was. And then…"

"You don't need to explain yourself—"

"I want to!" Lovino snapped, and Antonio physically recoiled.

Lovino lowered his head in his hands. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to shout, it's just…I almost died. I broke five bones and bled out onto the floor of my shop. I almost died." But then he looked up, a wry, proud smile. "But I'm a fighter too, you know."

"Oh, Lovi." Antonio's eyes suddenly filled and he had to look away and bite his bottom lip. "I'm so sorry. I'm just so damn  _sorry_ for everything. It's my fault. I shouldn't have goaded you, I shouldn't have made you feel weak. I don't know what I—I was just—I'm so  _hateful_."

Lovino laughed softly, shaking his head. "No, no. You were right. Whatever happened, things worked out. The mafia doesn't bother me anymore. I live in a nice neighbourhood not too far away from here. I'm happy."

How could Lovino be so relaxed about all of this? Antonio was tearing himself down from the inside. It was all his fault. How could Lovino pretend like this was no big deal?

"I have a family now," Lovino said suddenly, breaking Antonio from his train of mental hell. He looked up, towards Lovino's open smile. "Feliciano…my brother, remember? He…Apparently, he immigrated to America with his wife—Monika, she's German, part Jewish, if you can believe it—in the thirties. But they were in California. They tried looking for me but they couldn't find me. That's their little girl, Celestina." His smile only grew, a sort of unfamiliar light entering his eyes. "They found me when they moved to New York in 1942. He makes propaganda posters for the government. Feli, always the artistic one, you know?"

"…Wow…" Antonio exhaled softly. "That's…that's just amazing."

"Yeah. She's a good girl, Celestina. Very spirited, just like her father." Lovino laughed suddenly. "I can't believe it. He's not dead. Years and years of zero correspondence, and  _he was alive the whole time_!"

Antonio laughed too. It felt good to laugh. It had been a while. "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks." Lovino reached out, and his fingers just grazed Antonio's knuckles before he pulled away. "And you. You were in a war."

"My friend Alfred enlisted. And died," Antonio mused quietly.

"I'm sorry, Antonio."

"Gilbert enlisted too."

"I thought as much. I never saw him around. Where is he?"

"Where do dead people go?" and Antonio looked to the sky.

Lovino swallowed.

"His brother, Ludwig, died at Stalingrad. Against the Russians. Gilbert died in France. D-Day, you know? Fighting for the Allies…Proving his loyalty to America…just like he said he would."

"That's so fucked up," Lovino said quietly, looking away. "That's just so fucked up."

"I never found out about Francis…" Antonio went on. "You remember Francis?"

"Of course I do. You told me about him."

Antonio shrugged. "Not a word from him. Couldn't even find a grave. Nobody knew anything."

"I'm so sorry, Antonio."

They said nothing for another while.

"I've been keeping tabs on the people here," Lovino confessed. "Amelia's got three kids now with that Englishman, Arthur."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. And Madeline…she's in Boston. Married. Two kids. Hates her husband."

"Poor thing."

"And your neighbour, Kiku. It was harder to find out anything about him, but it was a fucking tragedy." Lovino just shook his head and looked to the sky. "Died at an internment camp."

Antonio took in a sharp breath of air. His eyes filled again. He cried silently, and this time, Lovino pulled him into another hug. Antonio buried his head in Lovino's shoulder, sobbing because he had to. For now, he pretended like there was no social convention, pretended that there were no passers-by who were witnessing this. Pretended that the two of them were normal, heterosexual men in a normal, war-torn world.

That was all Antonio could do now.

Pretend.

"We're the only ones left," he heard Lovino say quietly. "We're the last ones left."

* * *

Could they go back to what they used to be? Could they just start from where they left off? Antonio wanted to ask, wanted to know. But Lovino didn't give him the chance. Because when Lovino realised Antonio was homeless, he offered up his own little apartment.

For good.

"But we can't—"

"Antonio," Lovino said firmly. "We can."

And so what if the neighbours had a problem with it?

Lovino lived alone. He introduced Antonio to the rest of his family. Feliciano and Monika had heard of him. They invited Antonio and Lovino over for dinner.

Lovino was right.

That's what mattered, at the end of the day. That the people who loved them accepted them. That was far more important.

* * *

Antonio couldn't sleep that night. He couldn't do anything. He knew he was broken. Inside him, something had shattered. He was never going to be the same person again. He watched his ideals and his beliefs and his convictions burn to cinders, his hope for a home go up in smoke. New York was just has foreign as it used to be.

Peaceful, but foreign.

Antonio didn't know what to believe. He didn't know what his dreams had added up to. He was defeated.

Nations won wars. People never did.

"Can you do things my way, this time?" Lovino asked into the darkness.

"Your way?"

"When things don't go as planned, you just  _get on_  with it. That's how normal people survive."

Antonio's chuckle was hollow.

"You've never been what I consider normal," Lovino went on, sounding amused but warm as he held Antonio tight. "You've always been an idealist, a dreamer. That's why you stay firm in what you believe, because if you don't, you'd just dissolve. And that's a wonderful thing. But dammit, Antonio, you open yourself up to so much heartbreak." Lovino paused, stroking his hair. "And I've always been a realist. I've kept my dreams chained to the ground because I never believed they could come true. And life's shown me that they can. When you fight for them."

Antonio buried his head in Lovino's shoulder again, smelling him, holding him, just  _being_ with him.

"So now you do things my way," Lovino went on. "You try and be a realist. You grit your teeth and get on with it. And you'll survive."

"What was the point of it all?" Antonio wondered softly. "The war. The dreams. What was the point?"

"Some things don't need to have a point."

"It hurts to be human," Antonio whispered. "It hurts to  _feel_ human."

Lovino kissed him, and made it seem like it was the only thing that mattered. It was the only moment that life led up to. And when he pulled away, they didn't speak.

Antonio still didn't know what it all added up to. His beliefs, his dreams, all those things he'd fought for. He didn't understand why people were born with the ability to hope and kill. Why did beautiful things have to die? Why did empires at the height of their glory crumble? What did it mean?

But right now, those questions could wait. In this moment, he was safe, warm and loved. And when he woke up tomorrow, he'd still be alive in the city of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a rollercoaster.
> 
> Monika is Fem!Germany (like I mentioned in chapter one). I've described her a bit differently than what the fanart suggests. The art makes her look really badass and war-like, but I really don't think that image makes sense in 1945. So I made her more feminine.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. I personally am very fond of this fic, because history is cool. Please comment! :D


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